


The Procurator

by qqueenofhades



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Banter, Burn Of Indeterminate Degree, F/M, Fake Marriage, Garcia Flynn Human Disaster, Heist, International Man of Mystery, Murder Mystery, Spies & Secret Agents, Thriller, Vicarious Wanderlust, We All Hope For Smut, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-06-26 11:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 111,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15662283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/pseuds/qqueenofhades
Summary: Garcia Flynn is a widowed single father and specialist in complicated acquisitions, who has worked for a shadowy international syndicate for almost seven years and – until now – asked no questions. Lucy Preston is an American history professor leaving her past behind to start a new life in New Zealand, but who discovers that it has followed her in unsettling ways. When they're thrown together unexpectedly, and when Flynn's clients start mysteriously dropping dead, sparks may just fly. If they don't kill each other first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Samarkand, Uzbekistan**

**4:57 AM UZT**

Garcia Flynn wakes up three minutes before the alarm, reaches over to switch it off, and lies there for fifty-eight seconds, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, before he sits up and swings both legs over the side of the too-short bed. The air is still and stuffy, and smells like the takeaway box of plov on the chair, which he evidently forgot to put into the minifridge. He supposes there isn’t much point bothering now, and makes his way to the bathroom, where he switches on the overhead light and removes a small case from beneath the sink, flipping it open and wedging it onto the counter. There are a number of wigs, hairpieces, facial prosthetics, color-changing contacts, and even sets of false teeth inside, and he removes a dark beard, made of real human hair and backed with latex, and a vial of spirit gum. He is quite good at applying these damn things by now, though they’re always a pain to get off, and there’s part of him that admittedly enjoys the subterfuge, the illusion and invention. Maybe he missed his calling as an actor.

Flynn carefully glues the piece onto his chin, checking it in the dim light of the hotel bathroom for accuracy, and holds the sideburn in place while the gum dries. Then he dons a woven skullcap and a pair of thick glasses, goes back to his suitcase, and dresses in a plain dark suit, tucking his gun into the inner pocket and making sure it is not causing the jacket to bulge or sag or otherwise draw attention to it in any way. His ticket stub from yesterday is still in there, after he flew into Tashkent from Chisinau via Istanbul, on one of the rinkidink regional airlines that operate a fleet of aging Soviet turboprops and are banned from EU airspace. They also aren’t terribly conscientious at checking IDs, and despite the obvious fact of taking your life in your hands, in this case, it was best. Took the Afrosiyob high-speed service to Samarkand, and if all goes well, he’ll be en route to Bangladesh tonight.

Flynn ensures that he’s left nothing in the room, bins the plov, and steps out into the corridor, heading down the stairs to leave the key with the night clerk. The Samarkand Plaza Hotel is a small, attractive European-style establishment about a half-hour walk north of the magnificent Registan Square, the historic heart of the city, and the clerk wants to know if he can phone Mr. Taymazov a taxi. Flynn thinks about it, then declines. Even under a disguise and an alias, probably better not to give anyone too good a look at his face. Just in case.

(Conversely, if this _doesn’t_ go well, he could be experiencing the delights of an authentic Uzbek jail tonight instead, but never mind that. It’s par for the course, besides.)

Flynn thanks the clerk – he doesn’t speak Uzbek, but he does speak Russian, and in all these former Soviet states, that’s the lingua franca and you can get by in it anyway – and steps outside. It’s still mostly dark, the stars just starting to fade behind the distant red flush of the eastern horizon, and the air is cool. It’s May, so it will be plenty warm later, and Samarkand is more temperate than the high, arid Kyzylkum Desert that covers much of the rest of the country, but it still has that sharp Central Asian clarity, dry and crisp. He takes a deep breath, then starts to walk. He can probably make it to Registan in twenty, but no need to hurry.

The streets are mostly empty as Flynn strides down the sidewalk, except for a few cars and buses, the latter of which whiff of diesel. Samarkand is one of the most ancient cities in the world: continuously inhabited since something like the eighth century B.C., a major stop on the Silk Road, conquered by Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Tamerlane (among countless others – it’s basically a prime spot on the historical warlord bingo card), visited by Marco Polo, and vastly admired for its beauty, culture, architecture, and learning. The old city is full of splendid mosques, madrassahs, and mausoleums, the main reason that people visit here, and Flynn’s present appearance will allow him to pass as one of the scholars, imams, or other authorities associated with such places. Uzbekistan is overwhelmingly Muslim on paper, but mostly non-denominational and secular, and actual levels of observance vary. No terrorism, at least, though it shares a short border with Afghanistan to the south. But it’s a repressive authoritarian state run by a strongman president, with a corrupt bureaucracy and rampant slavery in the cotton industry, so they have other problems.

It’s getting light by the time Flynn reaches Registan, the sun coming up and gilding the tops of the three splendid madrassahs that frame the square: Ulugh Beg, Tilya-Kori, and Sher-Dor. The creamy-stone facades are decorated with blue and gold faience, the minaret spires are robins-egg blue, and they surround a rectangular courtyard planted with artfully landscaped trees and shrubs. Once Flynn has performed a quick reconnaissance and verified that nobody appears to have arrived before him, he decides that he isn’t going to sit here until ten o’clock, and it’s better not to stay in the same place too long anyway. He will head up the street to the bazaar, since it opens at five and most of the teahouses don’t until late morning, and get some breakfast. He has been told that he should try the bread.

Despite the early hour, Siyob is already fairly busy when he arrives, with merchants setting up for the day and a few enterprising locals snapping up the fresh, hot-out-of-the-oven wares. Flynn purchases a sweet roll and a Turkish coffee; the currency in his wallet is an esoteric mix of Moldovan lei, Transnistrian rubles, Turkish lira, and Uzbek so’m, and he strolls through the bazaar as he eats. Rampant inflation means that even the black-market exchange rate isn’t much better than the official one, something like eight thousand so’m to the dollar, and the smallest usable bill is the 200. That may be part of why Flynn’s here, but frankly, he isn’t sure, and it is not his job to know. His job is to show up, retrieve what he is told to retrieve, ensure that nobody gets in the way, that he isn’t caught, and the item in question is delivered to the person who wants it, also of whom he never meets or handles directly. If he has to make a mess of any sort along the way, he just has to be damn sure to clean it up.

As you can guess, _illegal_ probably does not begin to describe it, but Flynn’s employers float in that shadowy place where they can pretty much make any loophole they want and get away with it. They insist that they are not _the_ Blackwater, the spectacularly shady American private security firm that hit the news for massacring civilians in Iraq and otherwise being comic-book supervillains, but they use some of their infrastructure and operating setup anyway. The company is registered in Monaco, pays taxes (or rather, doesn’t) in the Caymans, and Flynn’s monthly paychecks come from a bank in Switzerland. Nobody technically knows that they exist, much less applies anything recognizable as administrative oversight. Flynn has never been to an in-person meeting with his bosses; for all he knows, there is some grunt-level Pentagon employee making a fortune out of his weekend spare time. But at his best guess, it exists somewhere in the terrifying hinterlands of American private-contractor shell corporations and disaster capitalism, the kind of entities that land multi-million dollar deals to rebuild places after Uncle Sam has blown them up and skim generously off the top for their trouble. Flynn really hopes he doesn’t work for Dick Cheney.

Nonetheless, the pay is excellent, he gets to see the world, it fits his particular skill set to a nicety, and it is vastly preferable to some cubicle-farm rat race job with a micromanaging sociopath for a boss. Flynn doesn’t have a business card (or rather he does, but they’re all for fake identities), but if he did, his title would be “Procurator.” It’s fairly simple. People have things that other people want: money, intellectual property, intelligence reports, cultural artifacts, compromising photographs, classified documents, proprietary software, archived blueprints, rare antiques, so on and etcetera. Despite how it sounds, not even all of them are wildly against the law to acquire. It’s just that there is always some complication involved in said acquisition, usually of the international and clandestine sort, and you can’t just send Joe Q. Purchaser with the company credit card to pick them up. You need to hire a professional, who can operate in multiple languages and situations and think on his (or her) feet, with little oversight or clear direction and stiff consequences for failure – and who, yes, should probably be handy with a gun and other types of weapons. Goody two-shoes, whistleblowers, or excessive sticklers for the rules need not apply.

Flynn has had this job for almost seven years. In that time, he has never lost a delivery or blown his cover, though he’s had a few close calls, and once he spent twelve hours being brutally interrogated by the Burmese police, though it was after he had made his drop and they couldn’t find anything to actually charge him with. Besides, as far as perks go, the main one in this line of work is the knowledge that if you are detained and manage to make a particular phone call, someone will arrange to get you out. Pay your bail or bribe the guards or threaten dire consequences, that sort of thing. But it is not an option you want to rely on. Flynn doesn’t know if he’d want to risk a second golden parachute, since he’s already used one. The point of procurators is that they don’t get caught. If you do, you’re probably a bad procurator, and not-Blackwater Blackwater sees no reason to keep those around.

Flynn finishes his roll and coffee (this is a nation of tea drinkers, specifically green tea, but he needs his caffeine), leaves the bazaar, and takes a leisurely route back to the Registan. In fact he walks past it, steps into a shop and purchases a newspaper and a pack of cigarettes, then returns to the square and seats himself in the sun. Opens the paper, lights up, and waits.

It is a few minutes past ten o’clock when Flynn becomes aware of someone drifting casually toward him. It is a man around his same age, carrying a locked briefcase, and Flynn looks up, making eye contact, as the man reaches him. Speaking Russian, the newcomer says, “Good morning. Ruslan Taymazov?”

“That’s me.” Flynn puts down the paper. “Dr. Khodzhayev?”

The other nods, sitting a few feet away and putting the briefcase between them. Flynn reaches into his jacket and takes hold of an envelope, which contains an inch-thick stack of rubber-banded so’m in the highest denominations (it only adds up to about a thousand bucks, but that is a fortune around here). Having glanced once more around the square to see that nobody is unduly interested in two middle-aged professor types out in the sun, he removes it and hands it to Khodzhayev, who peels back the edge and peers in. It likewise passes muster, and he removes a small key from his pocket and palms it over the stone. Flynn picks it up, puts it securely in the same zippered pocket, and they both sit there for several more minutes, ignoring each other. Then Khodzhayev gets up and strolls casually away, and it’s done.

Flynn checks that nobody is trying to be helpful and alert Khodzhayev that he forgot his briefcase, and that the doctor has vanished in the midmorning bustle. Then he picks up the case, walks back up toward the bazaar, and waits at the tram stop. He is slightly disappointed that he will miss getting to see the Registan at the famed “blue hour” of evening, when the lights come on and it transforms into a gilded golden dream, but you never know. He might be back here at some point. And should be careful what he wishes for.

Flynn has just missed the last tram, and has to wait for the next one. Then it arrives, he gets on board and rides a few kilometers west, and disembarks and walks up the broad treed path to Samarqand Vokzal, inside to the arched, blue-ceilinged waiting area. He had to have his passport checked and go through screening just to enter the station in Tashkent, but apparently not on this end, which is always nice to avoid when traveling with sketchily-acquired goods. The next leg will be a little trickier. He has to head back to Istanbul to catch an onward flight to Dhaka, and at some point, he will have to put the briefcase through an X-ray machine. It’s always three minutes of – well, procurators are professionals, procurators do not panic. But yeah. No one likes it.

Flynn waits until boarding for the Tashkent service flashes onto the screens, then goes out, presents his ticket and his Russian passport, and is waved on. The Uzbek high-speed rail service, despite (or perhaps because of) only having four stops, is surprisingly efficient: trains tend to leave exactly at their scheduled second, sometimes even early, and it’s a journey of just over two hours to Tashkent. He has spent less than twenty-four of them in Samarkand. There, see. Smooth as silk on both retrievals. But that did not happen by accident. He felt out contacts, cultivated connections and made arrangements, and on the first half, he had to cross into the unrecognized separatist region of Moldova, known as Transnistria, and get his pickup back across a fairly militarized internal border so he could leave out of Chisinau. Flynn himself is from Eastern Europe originally – Croatia – so for now, he’s in what his official mission briefs refer to as POT, or Prime Operating Territory. He kind of thinks someone should change the name. Going to POT doesn’t sound comforting.

They pull out on the dot, as usual, and Flynn speculates on the best way to ensure that nobody sits down next to him, or if it would be more noticeable if he tried to prevent them. It doesn’t end up being an issue, since it’s a midday weekday service and isn’t very crowded, and they reach Tashkent close to four PM. His flight leaves at half past eight tomorrow morning. Five hours to Istanbul, six hours layover, seven and a half hours overnight to Dhaka. Gets in at four forty-five AM. Cheery.

Fortunately, as already noted, Flynn is no stranger to long working hours, drop-of-a-hat travel, and gruesome wakeup calls, and he might as well catch up on his sleep tonight. He makes his way into the downtown business district, takes a room at the Radisson Blu, and once he is finally in his room, drops his briefcases and debates whether to go to the bother of taking off the beard. He has to maintain the Ruslan Taymazov persona at least until he’s out of the country, but a little variance in appearance can’t hurt, and he wants to call his daughter. Iris knows that he does a lot of stuff he generally can’t disclose, but Flynn likes to look as normal as possible when they talk. For, you know. Continuity.

He glances at the clock. It’s five PM now, which means it’s midnight in Auckland. But Iris is a university student, so the odds are good she’s still awake. So he steps into the bathroom, dissolves the beard off with vaseline, and washes his face a few times, though the lingering stickiness of the adhesive remains. Then he goes to the desk, removes his tablet and a mobile hotspot, connects to it instead of the hotel Wi-Fi, opens FaceTime, and taps her icon.

It rings a few times, as he waits. Then it turns from a static picture to the black of an establishing video connection, and it turns into a grainy image of Iris’ face, as she peers at the camera in surprise. It takes a moment for the audio to catch up, but then she says, “Hi, Dad. I didn’t realize you were going to call tonight. Aren’t you still on a job?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am. I just had a little time, so I thought I’d… see how you were doing. I know it’s late, I can call later.”

Iris considers, then shrugs. “No, it’s all right. I don’t have class until the afternoon tomorrow. So. Hi.”

“Hi.” Flynn stares back at her, aware that it is now incumbent upon him to start a conversation. He supposes he could ask about school, if she feels like reciting that to Dad at midnight. Iris is in her first year at the University of Auckland; it’s New Zealand, so the fall semester started in February, the winter break is for a month in June-July, and then the academic year ends in time for the Christmas summer holidays. He clears his throat. “You know, I should be able to take you somewhere for the break. I was thinking about the Moluccas, in Indonesia. We haven’t been there yet.”

“I haven’t,” Iris says. “You probably have.”

This is true, and she says it matter-of-factly, but it still stings a little. Technically, he has not been to the Moluccas specifically, though he has been to Bali, Java, and Sulawesi, and they could both use an actual vacation. He notices that Iris has a new nose ring – which, although he would be hypocritical to actually complain about, gives him a start. There are blue streaks in her chestnut hair, so she seems to be messing about a little, the way college freshmen are entitled to do. Flynn nods at it. “Nice hair.”

“Thanks.” Iris raises an eyebrow at him. “You aren’t going to give me some dad lecture about that, are you?”

“No.” Whatever impression he has cultivated as a father – probably not one he wants to know about, but there you have it – one of starched puritanical repressiveness is definitely not it. Iris is eighteen, she’s legally an adult, she can do to her body what she likes (although if she’s developed a smoking habit, or anything stronger, they’ll have to have a chat). Seeing her like this strikes it home to Flynn how much they have not talked recently. Their most recent home base is India, but Iris decided on New Zealand for university, and got a scholarship from Auckland, which helped seal the deal. Flynn could afford to pay her way through otherwise (as noted, the money isn’t a problem in this job), but she was determined to do it on merit. Flynns are stubborn. They’re also not good at talking about feelings. Iris is very much like him, and while he’s incredibly proud of her, he knows that’s a problem. At least when she was younger, they talked by necessity. Now that she’s older, not as much.

There’s a visibly awkward silence as both of them strain for more conversational material. Flynn is about to ask if they’re keeping her roommate awake, when he remembers that Iris has a single room in Whitaker Hall, one of the first-year undergraduate campus dorms. Then he says, “So are you liking your classes?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty good.” Iris shrugs. She is planning to double-major in politics and history, has the usual eighteen-year-old idealism about how she’s going to change the world, which Flynn hasn’t had the heart to disillusion her from. Everything she is going to learn about politics in a university classroom is probably the most surface version of how it really works, and he knows firsthand who actually controls things and how change is (or rather, isn’t) made. “I’m making some friends. I haven’t been to too many wild parties. Is there anything else on the parental checklist that you really need to know?”

Flynn tries to think if there is. Iris is a fairly independent kid, he doesn’t want to get too nosy. He was the one who was terrified to help her move in and then have to leave, while she couldn’t wait for him to get out the door. “Is Auckland nice?”

“I like it. It’s raining a lot right now, though it’s supposed to be sunny in the summer.” Iris looks wry, as if she too recognizes that they are reduced to talking about the weather. “If you’re actually going to have a break, Indonesia and tropical islands and whatever does sound good. But if you don’t, I’ll figure something else out.”

“I’m really going to try to make it,” Flynn says. “That’s my first priority right now. Okay?”

“Okay.” Iris smiles back at him, with a distinct element of _uh-huh, sure, Dad, never heard that one before._ “Since I’m guessing you can’t say anything about where you are, well, that’s about it on my end. Good luck with whatever you’re doing.”

“Okay, honey,” Flynn says. “I’ll be in Auckland soon. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.” Iris grins, does the little self-conscious teenager wave, and hangs up.

Flynn leans back in the desk chair, becoming aware of a suspicion that he might have totally whiffed it, without even knowing how. There are all the jokes about moody teenagers, which he thinks are stupid, because everyone has been one once, there’s no other way to become an adult, and when he was eighteen, he was three years into fighting in the Croatian Army during the Homeland War. At least Iris doesn’t have to worry about that, just classes and friends and grades and other ordinary eighteen-year-old stuff. He’s abjectly grateful for that, he is. He wasn’t really worried about her being all right away from him. After all, it’s been the case for a while, in large ways and small. Lorena died when Iris was seven. Flynn’s had to be mother and father for a long time, and frankly, he’s not too sure what a good job he’s made of it. Iris seems to be doing okay, but that is not necessarily attributable to him.

He gets up restlessly and puts the tablet back into the computer bag. Then he picks up the bedside phone and orders room service, flicking aimlessly through the TV until it arrives. Most of the channels are in Uzbek, though there are a few Russian ones. Nothing interesting, although he catches himself scanning for any breaking news involving a Dr. Ershut Khodzhayev, eminent physicist. Nothing. It’s fine.

Flynn takes delivery of his dinner and eats at the desk, doing paperwork. You better believe there is a lot of paperwork involved with this job, which may seem counter-intuitive; don’t shadowy mercenary para-government organizations want as few paper trails as possible? Maybe so, but intelligence is power, and they want a full report for every mission, the steps taken and the outcomes achieved, so they can build a profile of each procurator and tailor their assignments accordingly. And also, Flynn thinks, to make it very difficult for you if you ever thought about going to somebody with the intention of filing a report. They have countless reams of sensitive material on you, just sitting right there. Be a shame if the cat walked over the keyboard and accidentally released it to interested third parties.

In the back of his head, Flynn knows that these people are not shining beacons of truth and justice in the world, but they don’t discriminate in their acceptance of cases. (Good to have _some_ standards, right?) As long as their clients can pay them, they will tab a procurator to get anything they want, whether for the system or against it. True chaotic neutral, in other words. He’s stolen some stuff that he knows was definitely not in the ruling elite’s favor, and yet, he’s also stolen things that might have been their revenge. That’s the problem with working in the shadows. You never get to see things clearly, or know which side you’re taking, or if sides exist at all. But he feels that that is the kind of moral fallacy that tends to break down on closer inspection. Everyone does bad things with flawed motives, even if in the service of an imagined greater cause. Everyone wants something and wants to get it however they can. Dog eat dog. Flynn is by no means excluding himself. He knows that as far as it goes, his hands are dirtier than most.

He finishes the Moldova report, and leaves the Uzbekistan one mostly finished. It won’t be strictly done until he hands both retrievals off to his colleague in Bangladesh. Close enough, or so he hopes, and he doesn’t count chickens before they’re hatched. There’s still tomorrow, and getting Dr. Khodzhayev’s briefcase onto a plane. That could be the major issue.

Flynn puts his tray outside the door, locks it, and then takes a long shower, squeezing the meager palmful of hotel shampoo into his hand, rubbing it into his hair, and standing under the cascading water until it starts to run cold. He hasn’t totally screwed up Iris, has he? Obviously, she would have done better with her mother around. But then. So would all of them. So would he.

It was one of those freak things. Lorena was feeling a little under the weather at the start of the week, got worse on Wednesday night, went to the hospital, and then by Saturday afternoon, the doctors were using the words “catastrophic organ failure” and advising him that the humane thing to do was pull the plug. Late-stage undiagnosed cancer, or toxemia, or a super-bug infection from her surgery a few months before, or – there were a lot of different options. He doesn’t remember if they settled on one or not. Iris was seven when it happened. Monday, Mommy’s fine. Sunday, Mommy’s dead, and they’re hosing down her room with guys in biohazard suits and advising Flynn that he should have a closed-casket funeral, just in case. He has never been able to get the fear out of his head that Lorena was poisoned somehow, that she was targeted, because of him. He was working as an NSA asset when it happened, and he’d recently passed intelligence that helped take down a major Russian-oligarch investment fraud scheme, in Forbes 500 American companies. Someone could have gotten wind of that. Someone could have decided to hit him back where it hurt.

Just in case, Flynn packed Iris up from their home in Dubrovnik, moved up the coast to join his widowed mother in Šibenik, and they stayed there for another three years until Maria died too. No foul play in that case; she wasn’t that old, but she had a hard life (no thanks to his dad, he thinks bitterly) and she was just tired. After that, he decided it was time to throw himself on the dubious mercy of his Washington overlords, and he’s a dual citizen, so they moved to the States and settled in suburban Philly. Flynn got this job not long after. As noted, he can make a decent payday from each one, so he judiciously spaced them out. Take one a month, be gone for a couple nights, get a sitter to watch Iris, and then be home for the rest of the time, to cook dinner and help with her homework and do other dad stuff. Another way in which it’s preferable to a traditional job. It worked. It was a nice change from the NSA.

Flynn mostly ran operations in Central and South America for five years, until Not-Blackwater Blackwater (henceforward known as NBB, for short) decided that it wanted him based more in the Europe/Middle East/Asia/Africa theater of things. So he had to uproot Iris in her sophomore year of high school (this made him _really_ popular) and move them to Chennai, India. She finished her last two years at an English-speaking international school, which gave her a British-style qualification and eased the application process at Auckland, and she even liked Chennai, once she got over her bitter resentment at him for dragging them there. Once he’s done in Bangladesh, he’s going to head there and close the lease on their apartment, make arrangements to collect the rest of their stuff. He’ll make Auckland his base now. It’s far away from absolutely everywhere, but it’ll be worth it, to be closer to her.

Flynn turns off the lukewarm water, gets out, and dries off. He has a nice amount of money saved up. Some of the procurators do this job because they have a taste for expensive things, for luxury vacations and fast cars and ten-thousand-dollar bottles of champagne, and blow their paydays as soon as they get them, but Flynn has always been frugal. He doesn’t have to work anymore if he doesn’t want to, but he’s only forty-three years old, fit and active, and he can’t see himself settling down in some sedate retirement community just yet. He also doesn’t know what to do if he stopped. He’d get bored. Very few people in the world can equal his particular talents, and why not make a little more? He’s sure that Iris will be successful and make her own way, but if not, the least he can do is to be sure that he provides for her. _Procurator._ He can procure for his own daughter. He better, at least.

He glances at himself in the mirror, in foggy silhouette. It isn’t that late, but he’ll be up early, again, for the next two days, and he’s feeling that pre-five AM wakeup now. Might as well.

Flynn changes into his T-shirt and boxers, goes out, and checks once more that the briefcase is undisturbed and nobody is watching him from the window below. Then he turns back the covers, sets the alarm that he will inevitably wake up three minutes before, and goes to sleep.

* * *

**Auckland, New Zealand**

**8:30 AM NZST**

Lucy Preston leaves the house as usual at half past eight. She locks the door, squints at the sky, and tries to decide if it looks like enough rain to make it a better idea to take the bus. Normally it’s a quick fifteen-minute cycle to work (Auckland is not as bicycle-friendly as you would think, though they’re trying to improve it), but it’s been washout central for the entire week, and she doesn’t feel like being soaked again, even in the name of fitness. The weather hovers pretty steadily in the mid-sixties Fahrenheit, sometimes a decade over or under, but nothing too crazy. However, it does rain, especially in the fall and winter (which since it’s May, it now is – she’s not quite used to that), and in the last several days, unrelentingly. Some front moved in off the Pacific and doesn’t want to move out. Waitemata Harbour is shrouded in a damp, drizzly mist, and there is no clearing in the clouds above.

Fine, Lucy decides. Bus it is. She has to walk a way down the hill to the bus stop, but since she doesn’t own a car, which can be a pain in this highly car-dependent city, that’s what it is. Her car is about the only thing she misses from home, though she doesn’t miss the NorCal traffic, and getting around without one is a good way to get to know a new city. She moved here in December, and started her job in February. It’s thus firmly in the awkward adjustment period, but Lucy thinks she likes it. Auckland reminds her of San Francisco with the windy-bohemian-harbor-city vibe (it’s also notoriously expensive, though anything seems cheap coming from the Bay Area, and the exchange rate worked in her favor on arrival) and it’s good to be closer to Amy. Much closer, since her little sister took a job in Wellington a year and a half ago, and while it’s still an eleven-hour train ride, that’s obviously better than the entire Pacific Ocean. They’ll probably get together over the break.

Lucy reaches the bottom of the hill, turns left, and steps into the bus shelter. She has to admit, she thought she’d miss Stanford more than she does. She’s spent most of her adult academic life there, first as a student and then as faculty, and with her mom’s legacy to boot, it’s a long time to be rooted somewhere. Her appointment at Auckland isn’t permanent; it’s a two-year visiting lectureship, with the possibility of renewal at the end of that time, and then she has to decide if she wants to go to the hassle of moving back to America. If it’s still a dystopian nightmare hellscape, probably not, but that brings other logistical difficulties. God, she can’t constantly keep thinking far into the future and worrying about that. One thing at a time.

The service arrives, and Lucy steps on, tapping her card. Sure enough, it starts to rain as the bus is trundling up Karangahape Road, and by the time she’s hurrying through the park and up toward the humanities building, her clever aims of staying dry have been foiled anyway. Her umbrella has kept off the worst of it, but her shoes squish as she unlocks her office and steps inside. She doesn’t have class until this afternoon, but the inbox never sleeps.

Of course, the first thing she sees when she opens it is another email from her mom’s attorney and executor, Bill Caldwell, which makes her groan. Carol Preston died last summer, but there has been an apparently byzantine series of complications in sorting out her estate, and Caldwell’s emails always have a vaguely aggrieved air that Lucy up and moved to the other side of the planet, when she _should_ have stayed home and helped get this done. He always signs off by passive-aggressively reminding Lucy to call him, with an apparent lack of awareness that time zones between Auckland and San Francisco are a major thing. But it’s presently yesterday afternoon in the Bay Area, if she does in fact want to subject herself to it. She can’t decide if she does, but this one sounds particularly urgent.

After another moment, Lucy groans again, knows she’ll feel guilty if she doesn’t, and opens Skype. She enters in his office number, hits Call, and waits.

Caldwell’s secretary answers on the third ring, and Lucy asks for him. The secretary says he’s just finishing up another meeting and should be available in five minutes if she’d like to wait, which Lucy decides she might as well. She taps her fingers until she’s patched through (seven minutes later, props to him for punctuality?) and he answers. “Yes, hello?”

“Hi, Bill, it’s Lucy Preston. You wanted me to call?”

“Oh. Yes.” He sounds surprised that she has. “How is it Down Under? You meet Hugh Jackman yet?”

“That’s Australia.” New Zealand has a little bit of a chip on its shoulder in this regard. “And no, I haven’t. What’s this about?”

He was just waiting for her to ask, apparently. Caldwell launches into an explanation about some new assets that they’ve found in Carol’s name, assets which she – apparently – did not itemize in her will. This is a major headache for him, because now he has to track down any other legal document in which she might have arranged for their distribution, verify if there has been any fraud committed by shielding them from the rest of her estate and the applicable inheritance tax, and why, obviously, she wouldn’t just deal with them in the rest of her planning. He has tried to trace the provenance of these assets, but it has been difficult. They seem to have appeared in various accounts and investment portfolios with different companies, earned notably high interest rates, and then either vanished or been shuffled around repeatedly. To say the least, in short, this is more than a little fishy.

Lucy is not a finance guru, so some of the specifics go over her head, but she can get the gist. She asks how much money it was. Caldwell pauses, then gives her a number. The number is in the high-end seven figures.

 _“What?”_ Lucy knows that her mom did well for herself, had a speaking career and TV appearances, a tenured position and then professorship emeritus at Stanford, published fifteen books with popular and academic presses, but all that money was already accounted for. Lucy used her share to pay off student debt and the upfront international moving costs, then put the rest in an IRA, all of which felt alarmingly Real Adult ™, but this is different. “How could my mom just have a spare eight million dollars lying around and – are you sure this is her?”

“Yes.” Caldwell sounds annoyed, as if any dummy who went to law school can at least be counted on to correctly identify his client’s holdings. “There’s a list of some of the companies that held the accounts, I’ll send it to you. Maybe you can recognize a few?”

“I’ll try, but I honestly don’t know anything about this.” Lucy is starting to feel like she might freak out, which is not very helpful, but is also understandable. If her mom had this amount of money stashed in quasi-legal places, it obviously raises a whole lot of questions about where she got it, what she was intending on doing with it, if she wanted it to be discovered, and everything else. History books aren’t _that_ lucrative. Did Carol have some whole secret life, some second career, that she never told Lucy and Amy about? This could also open the estate up for lawsuits and contestations and federal investigations. Oh Jesus. This is a _mess._ No wonder Caldwell was pissed.

“Okay, well.” Caldwell sighs. “You know, it would be helpful if you were here.”

“Maybe, but I’m not, all right?” Lucy knows it’s not the case, but it half-feels as if her mom has managed to create yet another reason from beyond the grave to sucker her back to California, to entangle her in her business and shoulder her burdens. “Just keep me updated by email. I’ll try to call again if need be.”

Caldwell sighs again, seems to accept that he can’t force her to move back (although with an ominous-sounding comment about how he’ll hopefully be able to prove that she didn’t know anything about this, and it wasn’t a deliberate plan to flee the country) and bids her farewell. Once he’s done so, Lucy closes Skype and then sits there to stare at her computer screen. Well, that was tip-top news for Wednesday morning. She should call Amy.

Amy doesn’t pick up, so Lucy leaves a terse message asking her to call back as soon as she can, then puts her phone down and tries to summon up enough concentration to focus on work. Her inbox pings, she opens it to see the list of companies that Caldwell sent, and skims them over. None of them look familiar. She’s pretty sure she would have remembered it if her mom had ever casually mentioned something about large sums in any of these places. It’s not about wanting the money for herself – she and Amy got nice settlements, but definitely not anywhere near in this range – but just wanting to know what on earth is going on. She’s sure there is definitely a normal and legitimate explanation, but they need to dig it up.

Lucy more or less manages to get through her morning rota of tasks, until her phone rings again. It’s Amy, and Lucy is obliged to explain the present conundrum, to which her little sister listens without interrupting. Then she says, “The _hell?_ Mom did _what?”_

“She wouldn’t do anything illegal,” Lucy insists stoutly. “I’m sure there’s a good reason.”

“Not reporting eight million dollars to your estate planner seems at least a _little_ sketchy,” Amy says. “Frankly.”

There’s a slightly tense silence. It’s no secret that the Preston sisters have always had different opinions of their domineering mother, and part of the reason Amy moved all the way to Wellington was in an attempt to get away from her. Lucy got the post at Auckland a year ago, but deferred it while Carol was sick, which the university of course understood. But if by some miracle Carol had gotten better, Lucy would probably have ended up refusing it to stay at Stanford. She never told her mother that she was considering the New Zealand job, and this mess with Carol’s estate has felt at least in part like what she deserves for running off. Should have stayed in America for another year, made sure it was done properly, _then_ tried to start a new chapter in her life. Like a responsible daughter.

“Look,” Amy says, after a moment. “If Bill actually needs someone to physically sort it out, I’ll fly back to San Fran and do it. I can at least work remotely, while you need to be on the spot. Besides, you’ve spent enough of your life dealing with Mom’s issues.”

Lucy instinctively opens her mouth to object that she’s the older one, she should do this. But Amy works for an outdoors-adventure-tourism company in Wellington, and since it’s winter, it’s the low season; she can handle accounts and write blog posts and help with summer promotion plans from a laptop in California for a few weeks. Whereas, as she says, Lucy can’t just randomly vanish from her classes, unless this can wait for winter break in another month. Maybe it’s not that big of a deal. Caldwell can probably track down the beneficiaries and sort this out. People misplace multimillion-dollar amounts a lot, right?

“Well, all right,” Lucy says out loud. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah,” Amy says. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve actually talked since the semester started. Everything going okay with that?”

“Yeah, it’s been good. Different.” Lucy is teaching Stage I and Stage II history classes, participating in a Pacific and Polynesian Oral History Project to help broaden her research competencies and learn more about this part of the world, and has heard something about traveling via boat to the outlying islands for summer school courses in remote areas. She also does like New Zealand. It’s got a crunchy, laid-back vibe, it happily lacks the ten thousand deadly flora and fauna of Australia, and of course, it’s gorgeous. She’s pretty sure that half the country’s economy runs on _Lord of the Rings_ (the other half runs on sheep farms) and she has been putting in a diligent effort to learn about rugby, since absolutely everyone worships at the Church of the All Blacks. The history department did a haka to welcome her when she arrived, which was cool (though she cannot imagine herself, a small five-foot-five American woman, ever successfully pulling it off). It does have its problems, like any country, but frankly, it’s a relief to be out of Trumpworld. “Hey, if you don’t have to go back to California, do you want to do something over the break?”

“Sure,” Amy says. “I mean, now that we live in the same hemisphere again, we should try to get together more, right?”

“Yeah, definitely.” Lucy has been feeling a little unsure about where she stands with Amy. They were very close growing up, even with the seven-year age difference, but the years apart have changed them, as it always does with adult siblings. They’re still friends, they can still talk, but their orbits don’t intersect as easily as they used to. Amy does a lot of glamorous things, travels around Oceania and Asia with her company and has an Instagram feed filled with exotic places, is successful and popular and generally looks like she has her shit together. By contrast, Lucy feels that while she’s definitely not a failure by any stretch of the imagination, she hasn’t done as much, or as much as she should have. Knows that Amy’s not keeping score, that she’s the only one undercutting herself in her head, but after so long in Carol’s shadow, it’s a hard habit to break. It seems sometimes like Amy just tolerates her for old time’s sake, and Lucy, who has never made friends very easily, is insecure about it. It seems like of course Amy would handle this snafu with Carol’s estate, if need be. She’s the grownup. Lucy will just sit by herself in her books and papers and hide.

“Lucy?” Amy says. “You still there?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Okay, well, I’ll ask Bill to cc you into any more emails about this. I’ll talk to you later.”

With that, they hang up, and Lucy glances at the clock and decides to grab some lunch before her one-pm seminar. She is still very preoccupied with all this. How would you even go about tracking down the origin of a large amount of unexplained money? Is there a financial private investigator or a firm that you hire to do that? Caldwell can probably advise, but if Carol was also not paying taxes on those eight million dollars, the IRS will doubtless be very displeased and do… something obnoxious. But like Lucy said to Amy, their mom wouldn’t do anything illegal, and wherever she came by such a windfall, it wasn’t anything bad. Definitely not.

Lucy manages to get her brain back online to teach her class, and at the end, answers a question from one of her students about the final paper. It’s due in three weeks, so most of the kids probably haven’t even thought about it, let alone started it, but Iris wants to know if she can use some sources in Tamil. She’s writing about the history of the British Raj in India, and since she lived in Chennai for three years, she knows some local stuff. Is that okay?

Lucy gets the surprised and gratified look of any professor whose freshmen history students have shown unexpected initiative, and assures her that it’s fine, as long as Iris provides English translations for any relevant passages or citations. “Chennai?” she asks. “That’s cool. What were you doing there?”

“My dad…” Iris pauses, then waves a hand. “My dad’s job. He goes a lot of places.”

“Ah, okay. Well, yeah, there you are. Do you have anything else I can answer for you?”

“I don’t think so.” Iris swings her bag onto her shoulder. She has a loose, blue-streaked chestnut bun, fashionable black-frame eyeglasses, and a plaid shirt, a sort of messy-femme style that reminds Lucy of her younger self. Iris is also one of the kids who make a teacher’s life easier, since they will dutifully try to answer a question or start a discussion while the rest of the class is sitting there in deer-in-the-headlights silence. “Thanks, Professor Preston.”

She heads out, as Lucy erases the whiteboard and turns off the room lights. She is done with her campus commitments for the day, so she checks that if it’s still raining (it is, but only light drizzle) and leaves, walking across the park to Khartoum Place. It’s one of her favorite hangouts, a little treed square with cafes, art galleries, and boutiques, and she ducks into a coffee shop and sits down at a corner table. Like most historians, Lucy is attempting to write a novel, though it hasn’t broken five thousand words for months. She’s not very good at this kind of project, struggles with the perfectionist’s issue of needing everything to be awesome the first time around, and if it isn’t, she clearly can never do it and shouldn’t bother trying. It’s weird, since she’s so used to endless cycles of revision on academic work, but still.

Lucy stares idly at the screen and wonders if she feels up to trying to meet someone. She has refrained from all further forays into the dating world since her last relationship back in America, which – well, it was basically a disaster, it’s true and she should say it. She met Wyatt Logan when he was a widower, they got close and finally decided to go for it, slept together on a weekend trip to Hollywood, and then literally the next day, his wife (who he had told her the whole time was dead) returned to the country. Lucy doesn’t know if Wyatt was lying, if he genuinely thought that Jessica was gone, if someone tricked one or both of them, and it was otherwise a mess. She and Wyatt eventually salvaged enough of their friendship to part on good terms, and she’s not _angry_ at him, exactly, but it still leaves a sour taste in her mouth when she thinks about it. Maybe no relationships for a while, given her track record with both Wyatt and then Noah before him. Just casual. Maybe even a one-night stand. Meet some people she likes, not have to commit.

Lucy toys with the idea of making a profile, if she should indicate that she’s interested in men or women or just women (it is a truth universally acknowledged that sometimes you need a cold-turkey break from straight men) and then decides, as ever, that she can worry about it later. If it happens, it happens, but she doesn’t need to put extra effort into it. She clearly has enough on her plate right now, and this would be an unnecessarily stressful complication.

She finishes her coffee, gives up on the writing again, and heads out. It’s not raining, so she decides to seize the day and walk home. She lives in Ponsonby, a hip, gentrified western suburb that has a historical reputation as Auckland’s gay village, so there may be a few bars to try if she really feels like it. Her house is a tiny sand-colored gingerbread bungalow, somewhat ironically located on Lincoln Street, and Lucy walks up the front steps, scoops her mail off the mat, and unlocks the door, stepping inside. She tosses the mail on the kitchen table and shucks her damp jacket, then glances out the sliding-glass door at the inner reaches of Waitemata Harbour, which lies at the bottom of the hill. Yep. Still socked in. That, or –

Lucy isn’t sure what exactly she notices, or how. Just that she has the sense that everything in her kitchen has been moved slightly, rearranged from how she left it, and when she glances over at her desk, there are some papers stacked on it that she’s pretty sure she put away. She could have grabbed them for some reason and then forgotten, since she was in a bit of a haze this morning, but that’s weird.

Unnerved, Lucy makes a quick check of the rest of the house. The living room looks normal, but she is almost sure that someone has been in her bedroom, and she yanks open the closet with her heart pounding, in case the perp decided to hang around for some reason and wait to jump out at her. There’s no one there, and none of the window locks look forced when she checks them. She grabs a hammer and flashlight out of the drawer and ventures into her small backyard, thus to peer at the foundations of the house, but nothing under there either (except perhaps a possum – do they have possums in New Zealand?) She goes back around and checks the front door. It was locked when she got home, so if someone was in here, they made sure to redo the locks before leaving. Just not to totally tidy up the evidence.

Lucy supposes that the sensible thing to do would be to call the cops and report a suspected break-in. Maybe someone has been casing the neighborhood for potential targets, though crime isn’t really a big concern in this part of town. Still, she’s definitely rattled, and someone should probably know about it. So she heads inside, puts the deadbolt in, and phones the local constabulary. Nothing appears to have been taken, so she can’t report a theft, but the nice Kiwi policeman thanks her for letting them know and promises to step up patrols in the area. Well then. Hopefully it was a one-off.

Lucy turns on some music and starts to make dinner, though she has a tendency to jump at the sound of cars passing on the street outside. She’s a horrible cook, but she can boil pasta and pour a jar of store-bought sauce on it, and besides, she is striving to improve herself in this area, among others. She spoons it into a bowl, adds a few florets of salad on the side, and sits down to eat. That was a _day._ Hopefully Thursday dials it the fuck down.

As she’s finishing and putting her dishes in the sink, Lucy has the uncomfortable thought that someone might have heard, via legitimate channels or otherwise, that she is the heiress apparent to eight million dollars (which she isn’t, but never mind). Somehow tracked her down to Auckland and arranged to pay a visit while she was away, see if there was any evidence of it. Which obviously, there isn’t, because she didn’t know a thing about it until today and is still convinced that there’s a good reason for it. But if this person isn’t the type to give up, what if they come back again? Does she need to hire round-the-clock security? This is _ridiculous._ There have to be easier ways to get rich quick, if that’s what they’re after.

Lucy shakes her head firmly, washes the dishes, and wipes down the counters. Once the kitchen is clean, she glances out the back door again, then pulls the shades and checks all the locks again. They’re fine. Unless someone copied a key. Should she change them?

Lucy considers, then takes the hammer into her room with her, putting it in easy reach on the nightstand. She doesn’t want to blow this out of proportion. It could be completely unrelated. No use panicking, anyway. If she really feels unsafe, she can make further arrangements, but until that happens, this is a disturbing but singular event. When it rains, it pours. Literally.

It takes her a long time to go to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Dhaka, Bangladesh**

**9:16 AM BST**

You don’t really _go_ anywhere in Dhaka. It’s just not the way the experience works. You point roughly in your desired direction, hope for the best, and shove off, into a place into which the words _crowded_ or _bustling_ barely do justice, while you are assailed to all sides by rickshaws, crammed buses, rickshaws, scooters, rickshaws, private cars, rickshaws, taxis, bicycles, rickshaws, carts, and lest you forget, rickshaws. Pedestrians in Dhaka are basically the bravest people in the world. Sidewalks, traffic lights, and other common delineating features between human and road are taken as passing suggestions more than anything remotely obligatory, and the fight for turf is intense. The only comparable place that Flynn can think of is Manila, in the Philippines, which has this same sort of manic, unceasing energy, this constant rush and roar at all hours of the night and day. Traffic, to say the least, is a Lovecraftian horror. A journey of a few miles can often take well over an hour.

It is close to the morning peak, which does not help, as Flynn sits in the back of an intermittently air-conditioned taxi and taps his fingers restlessly. His flight from Istanbul was delayed arriving into Shahjalal, and getting through customs took another hour, as the border guards apparently all decided to go for a tea break at the same time – not an unreasonable idea at six o’clock in the morning, but to Flynn’s impatient thinking, very much so when you are trying to run an international airport. It’s also just into the start of May, which means that right on schedule, the monsoon is arriving. It’s not quite to its full potential yet, but fat drops are beating on the windshield, slowing progress further, and there’s always the possibility of a flood. Dhaka lies on the lower reaches of the Ganges delta, and it must have pissed off a particularly vengeful member of the Hindu pantheon at one point, given how hard nature is trying to wipe it from existence. Floods, cyclones, tornadoes, fires, and the increasing pollution of the megacity’s air and water are all fairly common. It’s also one of the places most affected by climate change, since it’s barely twenty feet over sea level. There are just too many people, and not enough places to put them.

Nonetheless, Flynn supposes, he should count his blessings. He made it out of Tashkent and onto the plane without being detained, which also owed to his strategy of slipping a small metal item into the pocket of the man a few places ahead of him in the security queue. While the detector went off and the man was patted down, Flynn made damn sure his keys were in the tray, and waltzed through without a chirp. Nobody yanked Dr. Khodzhayev’s briefcase for a closer look. It hasn’t left Flynn’s possession since, and assuming traffic moves before the end of days, he will deliver it in a few hours. The payday should be substantial. He doesn’t know exactly what it was, but he _does_ know what Khodzhayev works on, in some extremely secret Russian research facility. There had to be only a few procurators in the world they could trust to pick this up.

“How much further?” Flynn asks his driver, which is basically a hopeless question. He speaks in English, since Dhaka used to be _Dacca,_ handsome outpost of the British East India Company (colonialism, take a shot). He was supposed to meet his courier in Ramna Park, but what with the rain, they may have to relocate. Besides, that means they have to get all the way through the city proper and down to the southern suburbs, and that seems wildly optimistic. His rendezvous is scheduled at noon. “Is there a back route?”

“No, sir. Sorry.” The driver turns down the loud Bengali talk radio he has been listening to. “I can see if it is clearer on the N3, though that goes a little more around.”

“Do that,” Flynn orders, checking his watch again. It’s only half past nine, but time gets eaten up fast in here and any rearranging of the pickup spot will take more. He has a cell phone with the courier’s number, if he does in fact need to call her, but he’d rather not. This is already closer than he likes to cut it. “Step on it.”

The driver considers this, shrugs, and then adopts a highly confrontational style of automobile operation that Flynn instantly starts calculating for its potential to backfire and attract road-ragers instead. This place is such a maze. That’s one of the reasons it was selected for the handoff, since nobody can keep track of anything, and because whatever a model of civic organization and engineering is, Dhaka is the opposite. There is little central oversight or coherent communication between the various branches of its local authorities and public services, and even if he did get arrested by one of them, there’s no guarantee that the others would sort it out. Flynn is used to South Asia, since he lives in Chennai, but it’s less than half the size of Dhaka, and has a lot better infrastructure. At least the monsoon there is only in October and November, but here it’s all summer. And there’s the language; Flynn can get by in Tamil, but it is absolutely nothing like Bengali, since it’s Dravidian rather than Indo-European in extraction (there are a lot of nationalist issues attending to this) and that therefore does him no good. English is all right, to a degree, but still.

The driver navigates through several trunk roads and even a muddy side lane, scattering chickens and splashing murky water, until he rejoins the main thoroughfare on the far side. They come to a dead stop near the central business district, and Flynn fights the overwhelming urge to just get out and walk the rest of the fucking way, high risk of vehicle-related death or otherwise. The endless, cluttered sprawl of square grey buildings are buried in the clouds, and it’s starting to push eleven. Jesus, he should have flown in two days ago.

At last, by some merciful miracle, they find a moving lane of traffic, and it’s 11:28 when they finally pull up in front of Ramna Park. Flynn hands a rolled wad of taka to the driver and gets out, drenched to the skin almost before he can open his umbrella. Despite the rain, there are several walkers and recreationists out, since the locals are used to the weather, and while that luckily means they aren’t the only visible people here, he’s not sure if it’s still on for the handoff. He hasn’t heard otherwise, doesn’t have much time to sweep for safety, and this is making him feel all kinds of exposed. He hefts the briefcase, hopes for the best, and heads in.

Ramna Park is a lovely green space not far from the university quarter, with walkways and trees and gazebos, and Flynn takes refuge in one of the latter, which provides some cover from the elements and allows him to keep an eye on the entry gates. All he knows about his courier is that she’s a woman. It could be any of the ones he’s worked with before, or someone entirely new. NBB doesn’t like to be predictable.

Some of the rain has tapered off, though the air is heavy and wet and hot as a soaked sweater, when he spots her. He knows it’s her, because it’s indeed one of his previous colleagues, even though they haven’t seen each other in a while and she is far from easily recognizable. She’s dyed her hair black, and she’s wearing a Bangladeshi-style sari and glasses, looking like one of the university lecturers stepping out over lunch. She ambles closer and pretends to dig in her purse, then steps up into the gazebo. Jessica Logan says, “Hello, Flynn.”

“Jessica.” He keeps his attention on the pond across the way. They have worked together on a few other particularly sensitive missions, him as procurator and her as courier, and her presence means that he was right about the importance of Khodzhayev’s briefcase. There is no point in small talk or asking how the other is, and despite the fact that they unavoidably have to trust each other, they know no more identifying information apart from their real names (and those could be dangerous enough in the wrong hands). He thinks she’s American by extraction, though anyone in this job can disguise their origins, and maybe six or seven years younger than him. The rest is unimportant.

“Any problems?” Jessica sits down on the bench. “I was watching across the road since ten. You’re usually here well in advance.”

“Traffic.” Flynn figures that is enough of an explanation in this place, and it even has the advantage of being true. “I flew in this morning. It took a while.”

Jessica raises her dark-penciled eyebrows, as if to say that an experienced operative such as him should have compensated for that, but forbears to challenge his story further. “Well?”

Flynn reaches into his jacket and removes the thumb drive with the data from the Moldova mission, something relating to the country’s recent embezzlement scandal of over one billion dollars stolen from the three main banks by a Moldovan-Israeli oligarch. There are also a lot of dirty Russian fingers in that pie, as usual, and he hopes that this isn’t going to Putin. Jessica pockets it, then pulls out a makeup compact and pretends to touch up her lipstick. Flynn reaches into his jacket and pulls out the key for Khodzhayev’s briefcase, then passes it unobtrusively to her, allowing her to tuck it back into her purse with her hand mirror. “Undisturbed,” he says. “No airport security, no interference. Straight as I picked it up from him in Samarkand.”

Jessica pushes the briefcase toward her with a foot, checks the lock to see if it appears to have been opened (including by him, but he’s not an idiot) and then nods. “Once the contents have been verified, you’ll be paid. Anything else?”

“It’s in my report.” Flynn shrugs. “No major problems. Will that do?”

Jessica glances at him, then nods again. “Good job,” she says. “They’ve been waiting for this for a long time. You may be in line for a decent bonus. Take your daughter somewhere nice.”

“Excuse me?” Flynn doesn’t recall mentioning Iris to her, though information is at such a premium in this job that she might have found some way to dig it up anyway. He tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Relax.” Jessica waves a hand. “I just mean, you must miss her.”

Flynn does, though he doesn’t really want to discuss the subject of Iris with anyone from work. He offers a noncommittal grunt instead, and then gets up and ducks out into the hothouse mist, billowing in sticky silver furls off the greenery, feeling it rolling down the back of his neck and indistinguishable from his sweat. Now, when they’ve made their drop and are technically off the clock, is when the inexperienced procurator might be tempted to relax, to let down their guard and enjoy the sights of the city. Flynn, however, is not an inexperienced procurator, and one such overconfident slip-up was what earned him his twelve-hour visit with the Burmese police. In fact, if it’s remotely possible, he wants to get out of here today. It’s only two and a half hours to Chennai, assuming he can get back to the airport in any sort of good time and then a direct flight. He’s been on this assignment for almost two weeks, and it’ll be nice to be home. Even if to pack up and leave.

As usual, it’s a miserable trip back. There have been a spate of student protests about various things, including the wretched road safety standards, and the Bangladeshi government has been fairly ruthless about dispelling them, with tear gas and rubber bullets. Hitting one of those will be unfortunate, but thankfully, they don’t appear to be on today. Flynn has hailed an auto rickshaw, which has a better chance of weaseling through the gridlock, and makes it back to Shahjalal just in time to grab a seat on the flight to Chennai. He entered the country on an American passport that gives his name as John Thompkins, so he has to be careful about eyeing the checking officers, in case any of them recognize him and get suspicious about why he’s already back. He’ll have to enter India on his Croatian/EU passport with his actual name and Indian residence card, so it might be simpler to just use that on this end too, but the “don’t use your real name in any of your work zones” rule has been extensively drilled into him. Especially in a place like this, with such sloppy bureaucracy and often hand-filed forms, there’s no way to actually keep track of it, and the odds of someone going looking for it are vanishingly unlikely, but still.

At last, Flynn gets on the plane, hopes that nobody is going to be double-checking the passenger manifest against arrivals in Chennai, and wonders if it’s a possibility that he’s getting too paranoid. Obviously, it’s a healthy asset to cultivate in this field, and it’s definitely bailed him out a few times, but if you get _too_ spooked, it’s as bad as too little. He’s good at his job and knows that he is. He’s made a difficult drop and he is entitled to at least a few weeks of relaxation time, though packing up and moving to a new country isn’t going to be all that relaxing. He starts running through New Zealand visa requirements in his head. They’ve recently made it tougher to immigrate, after the usual white-people existential angst about the natives wanting to move back to the land that got stolen from them in the first place. Iris is there on a student visa, but he may need to prove employment, existing job offer, or funds to support himself. He can get the office to trick up something, they’ve done it before. Relocating their operatives to new countries usually isn’t a problem.

Flynn dozes on and off during the flight, feeling exposed without his gun, since of course he’s had to unload it and put it in his checked baggage. They finally touch down in Chennai near sunset, and his re-entry goes smoothly. He takes the Metro from the airport into downtown, and from there, it is a twenty-minute walk to the upper-middle-class residential suburb where they live. The flat is on the second floor of an old colonial building, set back in a flowered courtyard with a fountain at the center, and Flynn taps his security card on the elegantly grilled gate to enter. It’s quiet, except for the distant hum of conversation from the neighbor’s rooftop, and he finally takes a deep breath. He will fully relax when he’s inside and everything looks normal, not before.

He takes the stairs up, unlocks the front door (it has three different keys), and pushes it open. Sure enough, the apartment is tranquil, since Iris is away at school and he hasn’t been home. It’s white and airy, ceiling fans in every room, since this _is_ southern India and it’s just entering the hottest season. The fittings are sleek and ultra-modern, and the personal touches are few. There are some framed photos of him and Iris, her leftover books and things in her bedroom, and a handful of decorative knickknacks that he’s picked up at flea markets or Saturday bazaars. The air is blue and warm and somnolent, too stuffy since it’s been shut up, and he commences opening the windows and getting some breeze in, the gauzy curtains fluttering in the rich dusk. There’s no food. He might have to run down and get a takeaway.

Flynn unpacks, decides that he’ll phone for a kebab, and takes a shower. Now that he’s made up his mind to move to Auckland, he feels a sudden, brief pang of attachment to this place, that indefinable nostalgia when you know you’ll be leaving somewhere soon and have been there long enough for it to matter. At least it will be cooler in New Zealand, though he’s more or less gotten used to the heat. Hopefully Iris doesn’t take it as a sudden attempt to spy on her or tighten the leash. He’s tried to be good about respecting her space, and certainly isn’t going to turn into a helicopter parent. They’re like cats. They like to be alone together, ignoring each other and doing their own thing. He’ll just be in the same city, that’s all.

Flynn has just received his kebab from the delivery boy, tipped him and sent him on his way, and is sitting down to eat when his phone rings. He glances at it in surprise and some disquiet, since he wasn’t expecting a call and NBB does not babysit its procurators to the point of needing to know the instant they walk in the door. But when he turns it over, the name comes up on the screen as “Mom.” It obviously is not his real mother, who died several years ago. It is the older woman who serves as his contact and liaison, passes on information about his jobs, and sorts out any snafus that may have arisen. But _no_ snafus arose. What the –

He can’t really ignore it. Flynn swipes to answer it and tucks it under his chin. “Hello?”

“Garcia?” As if it can be anyone else, but he understands the need for confirmation. She’s told him to call her Margo, and has a brusque, no-nonsense, Iron Lady tone that has always made him wonder if that’s supposed to be short for Margaret Thatcher. “Where are you?”

“I’m at home,” Flynn says. “I arrived from Dhaka a few hours ago. Everything went as planned.”

“Are you sure? We haven’t received the scheduled check-in from your courier.”

 _“What?”_ Flynn switches the phone to his other ear. “I handed the items to her personally in the agreed-upon place, at the agreed-upon time. They were intact when they left my possession, exactly as I acquired them from the subjects. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary when I arrived, or when I was leaving. Is Jessica all right?”

“We’re trying to establish where she is.” Margo sounds slightly irritated that he’s used Jessica’s name aloud, even on a private phone call. However paranoid Flynn is, these people are several orders of magnitude more so. “She didn’t flag anything unexpected either, but that doesn’t discount the possibility of some kind of hostile interception. Khodzhayev’s briefcase was a highly valuable target. If it’s not going to who paid for it, that’s a problem for our entire organization, Garcia. I expect you know that.”

Flynn represses a feeling as if he’s just missed a step going downstairs. “I don’t know what happened to her.”

“Well, you’d better think hard,” Margo warns him. “If she doesn’t make contact in twenty-four hours, we’re going to have to treat it as a blown operation and institute preventive measures. I need you to go through all your reports, all your interactions, anything you can think of that might have been unusual in any way. If there’s a legitimate reason for her delay and she turns up soon, you’re in the clear. Otherwise – ”

“I did not sabotage the operation,” Flynn says, a little more sharply than he means to. “I’ve done this job longer than any of your other agents. Why would I turn now?”

“Second-longest,” Margo corrects him. “There’s another procurator who’s done it for ten years. But tenure doesn’t always equal loyalty, you know. On every mission, there’s potentially a price for the agent to not do what he’s been told. Send your reports tonight, and I’ll verify them. I’d like to think you didn’t have anything to do with it either. But we have to pursue all avenues.”

Flynn supposes that he can’t fault them for that, though if they’re pulling a full-house alarm at the thought of Khodzhayev’s briefcase going astray or into unknown hands, it gives him a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. “All right,” he says. “I’ll send the reports.”

“Good.” Margo doesn’t sound particularly relieved, but at least no longer as if she’s actively suspecting him of being the mole. “Oh, and I’ve been having some conversations with the higher-ups. We want to move you again.”

“You what?” This time, Flynn feels as if he’s fallen down the entire flight of stairs. He was possibly being far too optimistic to think that he could just up stakes and happily faff off to wherever he wanted to go, regardless of the NBB’s input or operational needs, and if they won’t consent to his move to Auckland, that will make things rather difficult. “First you think I might have deliberately blown this operation, then you want to suddenly change my assignment?”

“It’s not sudden,” Margo says crisply. “It’s been in the works for a while. We’re thinking about transferring you to Calabria, in Sicily. We’ve just landed a client who expects to be running multiple high-level operations out of that region, and you came to mind.”

“Oh?” Flynn is about to break one of the cardinal rules of the procurator code, but it bursts out of him anyway. “Who is he, one of the ‘Ndrangheta dons?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said Calabria.” Flynn shrugs, even though she can’t see it. The ‘Ndrangheta, the Calabrian branch of the Sicilian Mafia, aren’t quite as well-known as their counterparts, but they’re possibly even nastier characters. They are one of the richest and most powerful organized-crime gangs in the world, they smuggle up to eighty percent of Europe’s cocaine from Colombia in through the port of Gioia Tauro and also have ties to the Mexican Los Zetas, and they’re heavily involved in money laundering, illegal arms deals, sex trafficking, contract killings, and your other bog-standard shady-ass crime stuff. Calabria has had to dissolve several of its city councils and political organizations after they were totally infiltrated by ‘ndrine, the gang also dominates the illegal-migrant fruit and vegetable-picking industry in Sicily, and any investigative journalists or regional prosecutors looking into them had better watch their backs, since they or their family members tend to end up unaccountably dead. “So what, am I supposed to be working for the Mob?”

“You work for us,” Margo says, with an edge to remind him that while the status of his last delivery for them is up in the air, he should possibly not be confusing the picture. “The identity of your client is confidential. There are other operators in that region, you know.”

“Yeah,” Flynn says. “Not many.”

“You’re not involved with their business,” Margo reminds him. “Whoever’s it is. You’re a neutral third-party freelancer with no knowledge of their inner workings. I have to say, I didn’t expect to have to give you a refresher in our organizational philosophy.”

Flynn doesn’t answer. He really _doesn’t_ need to throw any more smoke over his loyalties at this uncertain moment, but he finds himself resisting this proposed transfer for – well, nearly every reason you can think of. Moving to Calabria is the other side of the hemisphere from Iris, he does not have any interest in working for the Godfather, and this doesn’t seem like an upward career trajectory with a solid retirement plan. You don’t just hand in your two weeks’ notice to the Mafia, after all. His defense, his way of continuing to do this work, is the fact that he doesn’t know who it’s for. He’s never asked any questions. And sure, technically, this assignment might not be for the ‘Ndrangheta, although the odds are overwhelmingly good that it is. But does that matter? It’s not going to be for anyone else handing out flower crowns or aboveboard tax breaks. Calabria is as close to the Wild West (the Hollywood version, not the real one) as it gets in mainland Europe. He’s always been the one who tells himself that morals are entirely relative and everyone is out for the same thing, so it isn’t really important how they get it in the end. It’s going to be pretty hypocritical if he pitches a fit now.

“Anything else?” Flynn asks stiffly. “While you have me?”

“Yes. While we’re waiting to clear this Khodzhayev business, you won’t be taking any more assignments. I suggest you relax. Go see your daughter. Catch up, do something fun. Where is she right now? Auckland?”

A chill goes down Flynn’s back. That is the second time that someone from work has mentioned Iris today, and Margo has been exactingly specific about knowing where she is. He is also aware that that was not a request, that they’re expecting him to go to New Zealand now and will keep tabs to see if he turns up, or if he tries to squirrel out somewhere else. Hopefully, Jessica just ran into bad cell service or an unexpected power outage or something else (though the prepared procurator plans for these contingencies) that delayed her check-in, will resurface in a few hours and confirm that Khodzhayev’s briefcase has reached its intended destination, and everything will blow over. Though that means he’ll have to think of some other way to refuse the Calabrian assignment without _really_ making a mess. Maybe convince them how effective he’s been out of Chennai, or barter them down to another location, or…

He can’t really quit this job either. They’d obviously know how to find him. And while Flynn doesn’t believe that professional hitmen are on their boutique-firm roster of services, he also knows that there are too many priceless secrets in this business to run the risk of a loose cannon. If he looked likely to do anything to compromise NBB’s interests, they’d take steps. He’s never been ordered to kill anyone outright, but he certainly has, more than a few. Pretending he has any high ground over the mafia might be the biggest lie of all.

“Fine,” he says tersely, since Margo is still waiting for an answer. “New Zealand.”

* * *

**Auckland, New Zealand**

**1:42 PM NZST**

The rain has finally stopped, and the sun is even out, though it’s still pale and damp, the ground squashy, as Iris sits on the lawn in front of Whitaker Hall with her book propped on her knees. She keeps losing her highlighter whenever she reaches down to fish in the grass for it, so she finally tucks it behind her ear for safekeeping, and adjusts the volume up on her headphones. She’ll hang out here until it decides to cloud over again, which will probably be shortly. Her room isn’t _bad,_ but it’s very first-year-dorm-like, and she could use the fresh air.

Iris is absorbed in the thrilling saga of 1960s political reforms when someone taps on her shoulder, startling her, and she pulls out her earbud. “Wh – oh. Hey, Olivia.”

“Can I join you?” Olivia’s arms are full of engineering textbooks and graphing calculators, and one tries to escape as she juggles them. “It looked nice out here. And my roommate is driving me _nuts._ ”

“Yes, of course.” Iris scoots over on her moderately dry patch to make space, and Olivia plops down, their knees brushing. They’re – well, Iris doesn’t know if it counts as _dating,_ exactly. They met in freshers’ week, during the orientation events, and really hit it off, to the point that it probably _looks_ like they’re dating. They play with each other’s hair and put their heads in each other’s laps and cuddle on their beds and have stolen a few shy kisses, but Iris doesn’t know if that’s what girls do with their close female friends anyway, because she hasn’t had many of either gender. Olivia is really the first person she’s spent substantial time with and actually wanted to keep doing it. She knew other kids, in Philly and in Chennai, and sometimes did things with them, but she wouldn’t have minded if she didn’t. She actually misses Olivia when she’s not around. Socializing is weird.

They work for a while in companionable silence, as Iris returns to sixties political reforms and Olivia does her engineering homework. Then when they both decide that’s enough for now, Olivia digs in her backpack and pulls out a bag of caramel popcorn, which she rips open and offers to Iris. They crunch some handfuls, and Olivia says, “So what are you doing for winter break? You live in India, right?”

“My dad said he was going to try to come out and we’d do something.” Iris isn’t sure how much stock to put in this. Dad has said he’ll spend time with her before, and then something usually crops up to delay him. She’s used to it, and she’s learned to keep her expectations low. “We’ll see.”

“Ah, okay.” Olivia is aware that Mom isn’t in the picture, that she died a long time ago, and looks sympathetic. “You know, my family would be delighted to have you.”

“Thanks.” Iris is touched. Olivia is Maori – she’s from a small town on the South Island, first generation college student, and has mentioned before that the extended Waiotaiki clan would be more than happy to adopt Iris and feed her bountifully. Iris is sure that this is true, though the uncertainty over whether she and Olivia are a _thing_ clouds the picture somewhat. She isn’t sure what the Maori attitude to gay people might be, and also doesn’t want to be an ignorant white person assuming that there _is_ A Maori Attitude To Gay People, rather than that they’re, you know, diverse individuals with their own opinions and beliefs just like everyone else. But Iris knows that places with strong traditional cultures might not see things the same as well-meaning Western liberals, and wants to be respectful of that. Yet clearing all this up might require actually asking Olivia if they’re dating, and Iris isn’t sure she feels like doing that. She likes what they have now. She doesn’t want to mess it up.

“What does your dad do?” Olivia asks, after another moment. “It seems like he travels a lot.”

“Ah – ” That has always been a bugaboo of a question. She knows it’s something in international purchasing, which is about all he’ll ever really tell her. Clearly there are other reasons for secrecy, and she has gleaned here and there that he has had several too-exciting work trips, but it largely remains a mystery. “Yeah, he does travel a lot. We moved a couple times when I was a kid. I think this is like the fourth country I’ve lived in?”

“I’m jealous,” Olivia says. “The furthest I’ve ever been abroad is to Australia. But you know.” She waves a hand, a little self-consciously. “It’s fine.”

Iris isn’t sure how to answer. Money has never been a problem for her growing up, but she knows that Olivia’s family is poor. New Zealand’s race relations are awesome, if you ask the pakeha, or the European New Zealanders, and not that great, if you ask the Maori, with their vastly disproportionate rates of incarceration, poverty, un-or-underemployment, and health problems. It could certainly be worse, and Iris doesn’t think it’s as bad as Philadelphia, which in some ways is the most third-world place she’s ever lived. But as someone who’s only lived here for four months, and had a notable amount of privilege coming in, that’s not for her to say. She would offer Olivia the chance to take some trips, to go places, if that’s what she wants, but yet again, that could be weird or patronizing or she doesn’t know what. Iris tends to overthink (and worry about) everything. It’s made her a great student, but otherwise, it’s exhausting.

To spare herself having to respond, Iris eats several more handfuls of popcorn and mentally reviews the work she should start this week to have everything done in time. She has four classes, two final papers, one take-home, and one regular exam, and she has drawn up a study schedule (color-coded) that she has more or less managed to stick to. She likes order, she likes structure, she likes knowing what she should be doing with herself so as to keep her brain satisfied that she’s being productive and therefore off her back with the anxiety. She is just about to go inside and get the planner when she catches sight of someone at the far side of the lawn, heading toward them, and her jaw drops. _“Dad?”_

He hasn’t seen them at first, and she has to blink to make sure it’s him. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses, a black henley, and blue jeans, a messenger bag slung on his back and a small wheeled suitcase in hand, and looks like he’s spent long hours in transit already, which is usually the case in trying to get to New Zealand from anywhere. Iris scrambles to her feet and waves at him, and he turns and hurries over, hugging her hard. Iris is five-foot-ten in her bare feet, but she can still just tuck her head under his chin, and when they let go, she looks at him in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“I – ” Flynn shrugs awkwardly. “I said I was going to come, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think that meant you would!” Iris glances over at Olivia, who looks intrigued that their prior discussion has in fact produced her vagabond parent – speak of the devil, etc. etc. “Uh, Dad, this is my – my friend, Olivia. Olivia, this is my dad, Garcia.”

“Hi, Mr. Flynn.” Olivia gets to her feet and offers a hand, which Flynn shakes solemnly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Flynn nods to her, as Olivia bends down to get her things, clearly under the impression that they will want to chat and catch up, and she should clear out. She waves over her shoulder to Iris and hurries off, and Iris glances briefly in her direction before turning back to her father. “I thought you were coming out for winter break.”

“Yes, well.” Flynn clears his throat. “Something came up sooner. And I’ve been on so many planes in the last week, time is a completely meaningless concept, anyway.”

“Oh? Where did you come from?”

“Home, this time, but I had to connect in Singapore and Sydney.” He does that furtive look around the Whitaker lawn, as if someone might be lurking nefariously behind the trees. “I’ve been flying since yesterday. I know you’re probably busy, I’ll find a hotel downtown and get out of your hair, but I thought we could at least go to dinner?”

“Sure?” Iris is pleased, if a little confused. Dad doesn’t usually just turn up out of the blue at her university, though admittedly, this _is_ her first semester and she doesn’t know if it’s a new habit or not. Then again, he comes and goes without reference to a regular schedule anyway, and she shouldn’t be surprised. “I guess I could give you a campus tour?”

Flynn graciously accedes; he saw a bit of it when he helped her move in back in February, but not all, and Iris isn’t going to sit in her room and ignore him when he made the effort to come all this way. It’s not that she thinks he doesn’t love her; she knows he loves her more than anything, and since it’s only been the two of them for so long, they’re friends as well as father and daughter. But he has a whole world that he keeps from her (some of which he still thinks she doesn’t know about), and it’s hard to feel as if you’re entirely on the level. It’s not a case of kids not being entitled to know everything about their parents, since Iris doesn’t want to. But she couldn’t even tell her sort-of-girlfriend what her father does for a living, where he goes, where he’s been, or anything else about him, and he remains a distinct enigma. Once she found a passport in his sock drawer with a picture of him, but issued in the name of a John Asher Thompkins, born in Texas, USA. She didn’t tell him about that.

Iris takes her books back to her room, changes her shoes, and returns to where he’s waiting, then conducts him across campus. As they walk, she can’t help but notice the way he keeps looking around, and given that as he refused to leave his messenger bag with his suitcase, she’s guessing he has his gun in it. “Okay, Dad,” she says. “Is someone after you or what?”

“What? No. Nothing like that.” Flynn somewhat undercuts this statement by glaring suspiciously at a passing skateboarder, though the only crimes he’s committing are of the fashion variety. “There were just a few unexpected problems at work.”

Iris wonders how much she can get away with prying at that. “Don’t you need to sort them out, then?”

“They’re being handled.” Flynn makes a visible effort not to turn his head as a pack of large, laughing rugby players cruise past. “Actually, the office suggested that I take a little time to go see you. I – ah – I was actually thinking about the possibility of moving here permanently, but that might be on hold for now.”

“You were?” Iris isn’t sure what to think about that. “I like our place in Chennai.”

Flynn glances at her sidelong, as if to ask whether that means she likes _him_ in Chennai, rather than here. “Well, anyway. As I said, I held off on making a decision while this work situation is getting sorted out. I may find a short-term sublet here, but the winter break trip should still be on. If you wanted to go somewhere besides the Moluccas – ”

“No, I’m sure they’re great.” Iris has learned to trust her dad’s taste in far-flung places, as they’ve certainly had some interesting vacations. She has gotten to see the Great Wall of China, the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, the geysers and glaciers of Iceland, the colorful, historical, hilly streets of Antananarivo in Madagascar, and plenty of others, and she’s certainly grateful for the international upbringing that his job has afforded her. “I just – oh god, Professor Preston, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”

This is evidently a cautionary tale about not trying to walk and talk at the same time, as she has just run rather hard into her history professor, who was coming the other way around the corner and has thus dropped her armload of books all over the floor. Iris, apologizing profusely, gets on her hands and knees to pick them up. “Are you all right?” she asks, noting that Lucy still looks shaken. “I really didn’t – ”

“Oh, no, no, it’s not your fault.” Lucy forces a smile. She has told the class that they can call her by her first name, but Iris still feels self-conscious about that. “It’s just been an odd few days, I’m sorry. Please don’t worry about it.”

“Oh?” Flynn cocks his head, eyeing her narrowly. “Why?”

“Dad.” He can be what is variously known as “an acquired taste,” “a little prickly,” or more bluntly, “a total dick,” and Iris doesn’t want him turning that lack of charm on someone directly responsible for her grades. “That’s none of your business. I’m sorry, Professor. Dad, this is Lucy Preston, my history teacher.” She says the last part a little pointedly, so he will remember to play nice. “I have her class on nineteenth-century political movements and colonial narratives. Normally we don’t literally run into each other.”

“It’s fine, really.” Lucy brushes herself off and accepts her stack of books as Iris hands them back. “Iris is a wonderful student,” she adds to Flynn. “It’s a pleasure to have her in class.”

He raises an eyebrow, as if unsure what that has to do with him. He’s still looking at her with that narrow, considering expression that Iris feels as if she needs to hastily disrupt. “Your name’s Lucy?”

“Yes, and you’d be…?”

“You can call me Flynn. Everyone does.” With that, apparently oblivious to the fact that _most_ normal parents would introduce themselves to their daughter’s professor by their first name and maybe even shake their hand, he makes no further social niceties whatsoever. As he and Iris keep walking – Iris looking back and mouthing _sorry_ several times – he asks abruptly, “Has she taught here very long?”

 _“Dad.”_ Iris knows that this give them-the-nth-degree interrogation impulse has a tendency to come out at inopportune moments, but this is taking the cake. “My history professor has nothing to do with whatever your work issue is. I swear, you’re turning into Mad-Eye Moody.”

“The real one, or the Death Eater posing as him?” Trust Flynn to put the most paranoid spin imaginable on that. He read her the books when she was a kid, did all the voices and dramatic scenes. “She was hiding something.”

“I don’t care if she was, that’s her business and you’re not going to chase her down and ask her five hundred questions.” Iris is getting annoyed. “Unless this situation is a lot more serious than you’re telling me, and you’ve taken it into your head that random passerby are out to get you. Dad. Is there something I need to know about?”

There is a long and uncomfortable pause. Then Flynn says, “Let’s just finish the tour. We can talk more at dinner.”

This isn’t exactly encouraging, and Iris finishes up the sightseeing rather cursorily, swings by the library to pick up a book she has on hold, and does so while Flynn is planted in the front foyer and keeping a vigilant eye on all the students. Yeah, that settles it. He’s definitely acting weirder than normal, and while the mutual don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy hereto in place in their household has served its purpose, Iris is starting to think that she might have to insist on a few more solid answers. Is he a spy? Is he in witness protection? Is that why they have to keep moving? Is that why Mom died?

That last thought startles her, since she’s never had any reason to think that her mother’s death was anything more than a tragic and sudden illness, and she wishes she hadn’t had it. She checks out her book, they walk back to Whitaker to drop it off, and by now, it’s around time for them to mosey into downtown and find somewhere for an early dinner. The sun is still out, miraculously, though there’s an autumn brisk in the wind, and you can actually see across to the North Shore, for the first time in several days. They leave campus, make their way to a chic seafood bistro on the waterfront, and are seated outside. It isn’t that cold, so it’s nice to watch the boat traffic on the harbor and the glow of car headlights on the bridge. Iris debates how to approach her topic, until she decides that she doesn’t really have the patience to dance around it. “What exactly do you do?”

“What?” Flynn, startled from perusing the appetizer menu, looks wary. “Do what?”

“Come on, Dad. Don’t play dumb. Your job. I don’t need to know exact specifics, but you’ve been acting strange since you got here, and I don’t think it was just to see me.”

“It could have been,” Flynn says, a little weakly. “We were planning on it.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think so.” Iris folds her arms. “I’m sure everything’s fine?”

There’s a long pause. Flynn’s eyes flicker after a passing yuppie couple, and then he wrenches them back to her. She can see him weighing up the pros and cons, choosing his words. Finally he says, “I’m a procurator.”

“What’s a procurator?”

“Basically, my company helps its clients get things that they want.” Flynn glances up again as the waitress arrives, he orders a shrimp and dipping sauce platter, and waits until she’s gone before continuing. “They can be… all kinds of things, and getting them can be tricky.”

“Okay.” Iris is willing to play ball. “Like what kinds of things? Can I have an example?”

There’s a pause as Flynn visibly searches for something to tell her. Then he says, “All right, once I had a maritime repo job. It was in Miragoâne, in Haiti. It’s a major port for smuggling and piracy, and there are very few laws there. Cargo ships, especially those docking in poor or developing countries, are often stolen or held for enormous ransoms. There are a lot of tricks and scams. You can massively overcharge for berthing fees, or bribe a local court official to say you have a claim to the ship, or just say they don’t have permission to depart. Once you have possession, that’s pretty much it. You can keep it or auction it off for a nice profit. There are a lot of stolen vessels, and they become part of the ‘phantom fleet’ that is used for black-market or criminal enterprises around the world. The maritime repo guys have to get them out of port, by whatever means. If you’re twelve miles out to sea, you’re in international waters, the local court’s usually bogus jurisdiction doesn’t apply anymore. So I went to Miragoâne and had to steal the freighter back, out from under their noses.”

“Oh?” This is already more than Iris has ever heard about her dad’s job, and she leans forward. “How did you do that?”

Flynn shrugs. “It was complicated. Had to liaise with some local fixers, distract the crew, and prevent the guys who stole it from knowing what was going on or calling for backup. So I hired some prostitutes for the distraction, paid a witch doctor a hundred dollars to publicly curse the one place with cell phone reception so the thugs would be scared to go there, and snuck aboard that night. Told the seamen they could either help me take it to Miami, where its lawful owners were waiting, or they could swim back to Haiti. They chose the former.”

“Really?” Iris is fascinated. “Do you do that a lot?”

“No, that was the only job I had in that vein,” Flynn says. “It changes every time.”

“So, like what else?” Their appetizers arrive, they order their entrees, and Iris dunks one of the shrimp in the sauce, but if he’s finally talking, she’s not going to waste the chance. “That time you were gone for weeks, a couple years ago, what was that?”

Flynn looks briefly relieved, perhaps at the fact that he can actually tell her. “I went to Pitcairn Island,” he says. “It’s way out in the South Pacific. The descendants of the HMS _Bounty_ mutineers still live there, it’s where they settled, and you can see parts of the wreck in the bay. Anyway, there was a major child abuse scandal and trial there over several years, and the mayor was one of those arrested and charged. I was sent to Pitcairn to make sure he didn’t try to escape, and handed him over to the prosecutors when they arrived.”

“Wow.” Iris is experiencing an unexpected and rather embarrassing revelation for a teenager: the fact that their dad may actually be cool. “But you’re a good guy, then? If you’re getting back stolen ships and stopping child abusers, you’re good, right?”

Flynn looks down at the shrimp platter. “Sure.”

“So this company that you work for, are they – what, American? NGO?”

“It’s complicated.” Flynn sips his wine. “There has to be a certain amount of secrecy.”

“How long have you had this job?”

“I got it soon after we moved to America. I was doing – similar things before.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s a – it’s been a good fit. It’s allowed me to be there for you, give you a good upbringing. That’s the most important. And I do enjoy it.” Flynn has almost stopped glancing surreptitiously at their fellow diners, though not quite. “It’s certainly exciting.”

Iris wonders if it might be a little too exciting, though perhaps that’s understandable, if he might have crooks or aggrieved fraudsters or other bad people after him. It makes her wonder if a few of those spur-of-the-moment vacations, the times he suddenly thought they should get up and go somewhere, or the times he decided to drive a different way home, or making a game out of checking their mail before she was allowed to open it, or all the other things she was happy to discount, aren’t quite as random and meaningless as she always thought. It’s a sobering feeling. “You – Dad, you’re not in danger right now, are you?”

“No, honey,” Flynn says. “Of course not.”

“But you _have_ been acting weird.”

“It’s just…” Flynn nods at the waitress as their entrees arrive, and once more makes sure she’s out of earshot before continuing. “There was just a mix-up with one of my recent deliveries. I’m waiting to hear if they’ve straightened it out, that’s all.”

“But if – ”

“That’s enough for now.” His tone is cordial, but it’s also the unmistakable voice of a parent cutting off further nosy questions from a child. “I’ve told you everything you really need to know. And I’m sure this isn’t going any further.”

“Yes, but – ”

“Iris, I said that’s enough.”

“Fine.” She can see him doing that thing where his walls are going up, a defensive trick she’s learned from him, and she’s not going to get anything more by crashing off them, except to annoy him. She wants to ask him why he jumped to suspecting the worst of her poor history professor, or if he’s just on edge about everyone right now, but that is another thread of enquiry that will be met with a dead end. The conversation stalls in the awkward moment, and they both concentrate on their food. She kind of hopes he _isn’t_ going to move here. She loves him and all, but part of going to Auckland was to have her own space. Yet he doesn’t seem clear on what he’s doing either, and it seems ungrateful to bring it up now.

“I’m sorry,” Flynn says, after several more cool minutes. “It’s understandable that you’re curious. Anyway, I’ve talked enough about myself, what are you up to? Olivia from earlier, do you hang out with her a lot?”

“Yes.” Iris feels her cheeks warming, and studiously avoids eye contact. If she’s not sure about having that conversation with Olivia, she is going to avoid it for all she’s worth with her dad. It’s not the queer thing, exactly – Iris has no idea how she would identify, orientation-speaking, and doesn’t want to label herself now, though she may want to in the future. She definitely likes Olivia in a romantic way and wants to explore that, but there’s all the unknowns that might make it just an unrequited crush. Besides, Dad still thinks that she doesn’t know about him and Matej. He always said that they were just close friends, but Iris – although she admittedly didn’t realize it at the time – has figured out in retrospect that they were definitely together. It went on for almost two years, while they were living in Šibenik with Grandma. Matej was an old army buddy of Dad’s, they saw each other again while Dad was grieving Mom and trying to hold it together for Iris, and, well.

Iris doesn’t know what happened, exactly, and she certainly doesn’t want to ask. Matej and Flynn fought in the HV together, the Croatian army, during the war of independence, and she’s sure you get close in that kind of situation. She doesn’t blame him for never telling her about whatever else went on with them, but it’s another reminder of how little she actually knows about her father. She did like Matej. He was always kind and patient with her, and she likes to think that if Flynn had ever told her that Matej was going to be around more and be a more permanent part of their lives, she’d have been thrilled. But she was a lonely nine-year-old girl who had recently lost her mother. Maybe Dad felt that he should have been able to give her another one, rather than openly being in a relationship with a man. And there has to be some degree of internal dissonance with growing up in Yugoslavia in the seventies and eighties, joining the military at fifteen, and otherwise being raised in an environment where you don’t exactly fly a pride flag. So –

“Yeah,” she says again, seeing that Flynn is still waiting for an answer and she’s been internally panicking for two minutes. “Yeah, I see Olivia a bit. She’s cool.”

Flynn nods in dutiful receipt of this information, and there is a clear sense that both Flynns have reached their limit for the exchange of personal chitchat and sensitive and/or emotional topics. They talk about the international economy for the rest of dinner (Brexit, definitely going to be a problem), Flynn pays the bill, and they get up to walk back to campus. They’re a few blocks away when he stops, frowning. “Isn’t that your history professor?”

Iris looks where he’s pointing, and sure enough, it’s Lucy. She’s lugging a book bag and looking preoccupied, and Iris is about to warn her dad not to lunge out and demand a full accounting of Lucy’s movements, when they both see something else. There’s a man trailing casually behind her, keeping enough of a distance not to tip her off, but as they watch, he takes all the turns that Lucy does and vanishes down the street after her. Iris thought that Dad was just being his usual Dad self when he twigged onto something with her earlier, but that… that does look fishy.

“Should we call somebody?” Iris ventures. Given what Flynn has just told her about his employment, she’s not altogether sure if he’s the biggest fan of the cops. But they can’t stand here and pretend they saw nothing, especially if there would be something in the papers tomorrow that they could have prevented. Iris likes Lucy as a professor, and besides, you should do that even for someone you didn’t know. “Or – ”

“If you’re all right to walk the rest of the way to your dorm from here,” Flynn says, “go in and lock your door, just in case. I’ll go after them and have a look.”

“A look?” Iris knows him well enough to know that there’s a difference between that and _A Look._ “Or the other one?”

“That’s up to him.” Flynn shrugs. “And, I suppose, her. But still.”

Seeing that he isn’t going to be swayed, and since she obviously does not want her history professor to turn up dead in a ditch, Iris pauses, then nods. She puts her keys between her fingers as impromptu brass knuckles, in case there are any other perverts skulking in the shadows, but it looks normal. She starts to walk – it’s only a few minutes to Whitaker from here, and it’s well-lit, it should be fine. But when she looks back, her father has already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Auckland, New Zealand**

**8:23 PM NZST**

Lucy is a few blocks away from campus when it belatedly occurs to her that there might be someone following her. She might have thought about it earlier, but honestly, she’s been so distracted that it’s a miracle she noticed at all. Being hyper-vigilant for the last several nights has not translated into getting much sleep, and while her house has not been “visited” again, she is still none the wiser about what happened in the first place. The cops came out, took her statement, and all that, but since nothing was broken and nothing was stolen, they can’t make it an actual investigation, and seem to think that the most likely explanation was bored kids. Besides, Lucy has that ever-present fear that she’s being inconvenient, that she’s taking them away from real stuff more worthy of their attention, and since, after all, nothing is visibly wrong, she should make like Elsa and let it go. That is the plan.

At least, it _was_ the plan until this morning. That was when she woke up to another email from Bill Caldwell informing her of the latest twist in the saga of her mom’s shady assets: they’re missing. As in, he discovered their existence a few days ago, told Lucy about them, has done yeoman’s work trying to track them down and file the appropriate paperwork to begin sorting them out, and now he can’t find any trace that they ever existed. He checked back in all the places that they were twenty-four hours ago, and bupkis. All the accounts have mysteriously closed, been frozen, or been emptied, scrubbed of any identifying information and otherwise making it impossible to prove that they _did_ belong to Carol Preston or contained the money in the first place. It looks like Bill was never supposed to know about them in the first place. It doesn’t look like anyone was. And now that they have…

This means that Lucy had a long and tense phone call with Amy this morning, it’s pretty clear that this is a major problem, and Amy is making arrangements to fly out this weekend and wade into the morass back home. Lucy is deeply grateful that Amy is doing it, but to say the least, it is weighing on her mind. Carol was always difficult and controlling, but she was determined for her daughters to have and do the best. None of this fits with anything Lucy knew about her, and now that Carol is obviously dead and Lucy can’t talk to her and sort any of it out, she struggles with the bewilderment and betrayal. It’s hard to keep on with your normal life with all this swirling in the background, when you’re wondering if everything you thought about yourself, your family, your mother, might be wrong. Maybe she shouldn’t have come to New Zealand. Maybe it was a mistake.

What with all this, the last thing Lucy needs right now is some creepy rando following her home. She jerks her head up and looks around. The footsteps continue for another moment, then stop. She thinks he’s loitering just out of sight, by the streetlamp. Every woman in the world knows that you don’t go to directly confront a sketchy dude trailing you at night. You look around for a well-lit public place or you prepare to scream or call 111 (as the case is here). Lucy was going to cut across Victoria Park, but she’s pretty sure that she should not do that. Auckland is usually fairly safe, but you have to take the same precautions as in any other city, and there’s the Northern Motorway viaduct that crosses the park, making a convenient spot for someone to catch her alone under the bridge. So what should she –

Unnerved, Lucy reaches into her bag for her phone, trying to make it look casual. She starts walking a little faster, as the man speeds up to match her. He seems to be trying to funnel her into a nearby alley, and she circles out onto the sidewalk, looking for somewhere that’s still open, so she can duck in and ask to stay there until the cops arrive. Or if there’s another woman, she can possibly pull the “Sarah, I haven’t seen you in forever!” trick, but she doesn’t want to put anyone else in danger. But either way, she has to do something. God, she really should have bought more pepper spray, but now that she’s moved out of the Bay Area, she didn’t want to get back into the habit of always suspecting the –

Spotting the lights of a store ahead, Lucy starts to run outright, as she hears her pursuer break into a sprint. She is a history professor, not a fitness champion, and while walking and cycling around Auckland has improved her stamina to some degree, she is not likely to win an extended foot race. But then she catches sight of someone else winging out of the shadows, and hears a muffled thump, then several more. Two indistinct shapes are struggling, and the newcomer swings back a fist and economically decks the creep. He goes down with a squashy sound, and Lucy wonders if she’s in even more trouble now. All she can make out of her – rescuer? New problem? Local Kiwi vigilante? – is that he’s tall, and is currently dragging the unconscious creep into a nearby alley. Lucy is _definitely_ not about to wait around to see how this is going. She needs to get out of here.

That is the intention, at any rate, but her feet have frozen. Finally, she takes a step backward, then another one, and is just about to run the rest of the way to the store when the newcomer re-emerges. A faintly familiar voice says, “Professor Preston, was it?”

Lucy blinks hard, wondering if this night can possibly get weirder, as she recognizes the man. It’s Iris Flynn’s unsociable father, the tall, dark, and grumpy one. He has definitely just done her a favor, but he’s still looking at her like he did during their brief meeting on campus, as if _she’s_ the one up to no good and he’d like an explanation. “He wasn’t carrying a wallet or any ID,” he says, jerking his head at the alley. “No name. Why do you think he was following you?”

“Excuse me?” Lucy is still rattled, but annoyance is swiftly starting to replace terror. “Like it’s _my_ job to explain why a creepy man was following me at night? Victim-blame much?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He seems annoyed that she didn’t immediately understand this. “What else is going on to have a third party take an interest in you?”

 _“Excuse_ me?” Lucy stares at him. It occurs to her that she still doesn’t even know his first name, given as he instructed her to call him Flynn and stalked off like the drama king he all too evidently is. “I don’t believe we know each other, we – ”

“We met earlier,” Flynn interrupts. “You’re my daughter’s professor.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” Wherever Iris turned out so lovely, it clearly wasn’t from him. “I meant, why do you think you’re entitled to assume that there’s anything – ”

“Well?” Flynn folds his arms. “Am I wrong?”

He’s not, strictly speaking, though Lucy has never met anyone with less clue how to start a remotely civilized conversation, much less with someone you think you’re doing a favor. She’s actually not sure if that’s his goal or not. Is he some sort of undercover financial sleuth who’s here to put two and two together about the missing money? He definitely was giving her funny looks earlier. Lucy wants to explain both that she doesn’t know anything, and also to not explain anything at all and tell him to shove off. He can show her an official badge or something like that, or he can get lost ASAP.

Still, she _was_ just being tailed by a creeper, and Flynn is standing there with an expectant look. He probably won’t kidnap his daughter’s teacher, right? Lucy hesitates, then consents to walk stiffly alongside him the rest of the way to the store, which turns out to have closed at 8 PM and the employees are just locking up and getting ready to go. They stand there on the sidewalk, Flynn considers, then says, “Where do you live? We’ll get a cab.”

“ _We’ll_ get – ?” Lucy isn’t sure if he’s being rude on purpose, or he just has no idea about anything. “Since when is it _we?”_

Flynn eyes her up and down. He is considerably good-looking in a rugged, classic-leading-man way, with dark hair and strong features, but absolutely nothing about this situation makes her inclined to appreciate that, or him. At last he says, “I have some questions.”

“Yeah? I also have questions.” Lucy has had the hell of a few days, and dealing with the world’s most uncomfortable parent-teacher conference isn’t helping. “Like, what even is your first name? Or don’t you give that out to civilians?”

Flynn looks surprised, and rather taken aback. Then he says reluctantly, “Garcia.”

“Garcia.” Lucy supposes it’s incumbent upon her to shake his hand and tell him it’s nice to meet him, but frankly, it isn’t, so she doesn’t. “Fine. But I’m not taking you to my house, and unless Bill Caldwell sent you to – ”

“Bill Caldwell?” It’s Flynn’s turn to be confused. “Who’s that?”

“Never mind.” Lucy is starting to wonder if they have somehow gotten their wires crossed – well, they clearly have on that part – and they both have something going on that they assume the other is involved with. She doesn’t know what sort of job Flynn can possibly have that involves skulking around dark alleys and punching local ne’er-do-wells, but that is probably best left unexplored. “Look, I’ll just take a bus or something from here. You can go.”

Flynn doesn’t look very much as if that’s something he plans on doing, and not out of tender regard for her personal safety, either. He continues to eye her narrowly. “Do you only work at the university? Or do you have something else? Some secret side job?”

“What kind of question is that?” Lucy is exasperated. “Of course I only work at the university! I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not it, so – ”

“So you don’t…” It is slowly dawning on Flynn (only _now_ ) that he might have misjudged the situation. “You don’t have any orders to… harm Iris, if necessary?”

“What?” Lucy is even more shocked that anyone could think that within her capability, much less that she, a small woman, would be the ideal instrument of vigilante violence. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I ever hurt her, or any of my students?”

Flynn doesn’t answer, but she sees his shoulders shudder briefly with an exhaled sigh. She’s about to suggest voluntary check-in at a psychiatric clinic or something else to treat what are clearly very significant mental health problems, when he finally looks back at her. “So you don’t work for them?”

“Who?” Lucy snaps. “The Illuminati?”

Caught by surprise, Flynn utters a brief, brusque laugh, then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not them. Do you know anything about anyone who might have similar orders?”

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Lucy is almost impressed. “I just _told_ you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you think you or your daughter are in danger, you should probably call the – ”

“Please don’t say the police.” Flynn sounds scornful, as if the police clearly would know nothing about whatever mess he appears to be in, and she’s insulting his intelligence by suggesting it. For all she knows, this is true, if not very reassuring. “Anyway, we’ve been standing out here in plain sight for too long. If we’re not going to your house, we’ll go somewhere else. You can decide, or I will.”

“So going home without you doesn’t appear to be an option?”

“Not right now. You could still be in danger, anyway.” Flynn tilts his head in the direction of the alley. “Or we could wait for him to wake up, if you preferred?”

Lucy hesitates. It _is_ true that the guy was up to no good, and that large and ferociously bad-tempered as Flynn is, he might frighten away any other individuals of that description. She tries to think if there’s anywhere sufficiently public that they could go. Auckland tends to close down around nine PM, and neither of the major malls are really in walking distance. Finally, she decides that St. Patrick’s Cathedral is close by, presumably safe (Flynn is rough around the edges, but he doesn’t feel _dangerous_ to her the same way the other man did, and even if so, he might have pause about killing her in a church) and usually unlocked. Besides, to say the least, she also has questions. “Fine,” she says, jerking her head. “Come on.”

For once, Flynn follows without protest, stalking a majestic few paces at her back as they start into the downtown district. They’ve walked a few minutes in terse silence when Lucy asks, “Where’s Iris? Does she know you’re doing this?”

There’s a pause. Then Flynn says, “Iris is back at her dorm. We saw the man following you, and I told her I’d take care of it.”

“So your idea of doing that was to go beat the crap out of him yourself?” To state the obvious, the fathers of Lucy’s students are not normally like this. Not that she’s had the chance to meet very many, but thus far, they’ve mostly been nice middle-class Kiwi office managers. Flynn’s accent isn’t New Zealander, anyway; it sounds Eastern European, though Iris speaks relatively unaccented American English. Auckland is a very diverse city, they don’t have to be from here, though Lucy suddenly wonders where they _are_ from. Iris mentioned living in Chennai when she was asking Lucy about using Tamil-language sources in her paper, but they don’t seem Indian either. Military? That seems the most likely, given the moving around and Flynn’s general demeanor and behavior, but Lucy’s never met a soldier who acted like this. Wyatt was one, U.S. Army Special Forces, and he was a straight arrow, or at least tried to pretend he was. He could be a hothead and a lone wolf too, but he had that awareness of orders, of following a hierarchy and a chain of command, of keeping up appearances and adhering to procedure. Flynn does not feel like he has any of that.

They reach St. Patrick’s Cathedral in a few more minutes, and Lucy tugs at the door. It’s still open – maybe a late Bible study or something – and they enter the sanctuary. It’s elegant and high-arched, stained-glass windows looking down over white walls and carved pews, and she notices Flynn tense. Seeing her watching, he says, “My – my wife was Catholic. She’d drag me to Mass once a month. I haven’t gone since – ” He stops. “It’s been a while.”

“Sorry.” Lucy doesn’t know why she’s apologizing, given as Flynn’s the one causing the hassle in her life right now (or at least the present moment, as there is admittedly plenty of hassle without him), and since he practically frog-marched her here if she wasn’t going to go home, he deserves whatever existential discomfort it causes him. They sit down on one of the empty pews, several feet apart, and stare up at the altar. Lucy’s not religious, exactly, but she finds herself wanting to believe in a higher plan, in a grand design, in some kind of meaning and purpose to life that’s not just random coincidence and blind chance. Maybe it comes with the historian thing, of wanting to take all the pieces and make them fit together in a neat picture, and she knows that it’s a mistake to narrativize the past, to excuse and legitimize it, make it look like it was all happening toward a pre-determined outcome when it wasn’t. She used to think that way, that everything happened for a specific and destined reason and should not have been changed even if it was possible, good or bad, but Carol’s death and her own crisis of confidence have shaken her. She’s not sure what she holds true anymore, and she isn’t as naïve to think that everything is always for the best. It’s not. Sometimes it’s just terrible, and there isn’t anything that anyone can do about it.

“So,” Flynn says, when they’ve sat there in awkward silence for several more moments. “Why do you think that man was following you?”

“You don’t believe it was just some local perv being a perv?”

“No, I don’t.” He looks at her forthrightly. “Do you?”

“No.” Lucy blows out a breath. “Though it could be. I don’t know.”

“Meaning?”

“Fine. There’s been some… weird things happening with my mom’s estate.” With that, since what the hell, they’re here and she kind of needs to get it off her chest anyway, Lucy gives him a brief summary of the shenanigans with the recently discovered, and then disappeared, eight million dollars of Carol Preston’s uncatalogued assets. That maybe the break-in at her house was connected to it, and maybe it wasn’t, but it’s obviously made her paranoid and if the guy tonight was part of that, it feels like someone somewhere definitely knows about it. She doesn’t know where the money came from, why it’s now vanished, or anything else to do with it. It’s making her question who her mother was and what she did, and since she’s obviously dead, none of the answers are easily forthcoming.

Something in Flynn’s face flickers when she mentions that, a daughter losing faith in a previously adored parent, and she wonders if it might strike a nerve with something going on with him and Iris. He doesn’t say anything until she’s done. Then he says, “Well. I suppose it’s possible I could look into that.”

“You could?” Lucy blinks. “What are you, exactly?”

“Someone who deals with these sorts of jobs.” Flynn shrugs. “People want things, and I help them get them. In this case, money or information about it. Fairly straightforward.”

“So what, you’d just – do that for me?”

“Of course I wouldn’t just _do that._ I’m a professional, I don’t work for free. I’m saying you could hire me to do it for you. Though right now, I’m not supposed to take on any new assignments, and the office would be pissed if I took on a private client without going through them, since that would cheat them out of their commission. I can’t really afford to make them any angrier right now.”

“And that means what?” Lucy is trying to guess what this job of his actually is, and can’t think that it’s anything she necessarily wants to get mixed up in. There have to be better ways to go about this, trusted financial and legal advisors that Bill Caldwell can recommend. Not hiring some mysterious mercenary who punched out a guy in an alley and has not come close to telling her who he actually works for or why. She has no idea who Flynn is or why she should trust him, and she’s already a little suspicious of how interested he seems in this case. For all she knows, _he’s_ the one coordinating the money-acquiring efforts on this end, and the would-be mugger tonight might even work for him, so he could swoop in and gain her trust by staging a rescue. She doesn’t think so, but she’s suddenly had to start considering all possibilities, and they’re alone right now. She could yell for someone. Is the pastor still here, would they hear her or get here in time? She edges a few more inches away.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Lucy.” He sounds a little annoyed, though Lucy is likewise annoyed that he apparently doesn’t realize that a woman like her has good cause to be afraid of a man like him. “If I wanted to, I already would have.”

“You know that’s not very comforting, right?” Lucy eyes him coolly. “Since apparently it’s something you could and might have done?”

Flynn doesn’t bother to deny that, giving half a shrug and shifting his bag with a clunk that definitely sounds like he’s carrying. “So you don’t know _anything_ about what your mother might have done to end up with eight million dollars in shady money?”

Lucy is about to retort indignantly that it isn’t shady, when it occurs to her that she can’t really say that with any authority right now. “Why? Sound familiar to you?”

“Something like that.” Flynn turns his head sharply at a creak from the side hall, but it sounds like just the building settling for the night. “As I said, your case would be pretty run-of-the-mill for what I do. Unless you’re just going to sit and hope it sorts itself out?”

“My sister’s flying back to San Francisco this weekend,” Lucy says. “She’s going to look into it for us.”

Flynn takes that in with a slow nod. She’s not sure if he thinks she’s playing hardball in the negotiations and is going to come around to proposing a price (as if she would have any idea how much to charge for his services, or was actually inclined to engage them), or is trying to ascertain if she’s totally helpless to handle this on her own. “Well,” he says. “I hope that works out for her. Though if she doesn’t know any more than you, I can’t see that it will.”

Lucy glares at him, half for the perceived slight on Amy and half because she doesn’t know if he’s wrong, when there’s another creak in the hall and a custodian pushing a floor buffer emerges. “Excuse me, sir, ma’am. Cathedral’s closed for the night. Time to leave, sorry.”

Flynn and Lucy slide out of the pew and get to their feet, heading for the door, but Flynn stops to pluck a small votive candle from the box, light it, and put it in the rack. Once they’re outside, he pulls out a plain white card and hands it to her. The name on it is _John Thompkins,_ and there’s no job title, just a phone number. “If you change your mind,” he says, “you can reach me here. I’d be willing to give you a special rate, since you know Iris. Keep it in mind.”

“Thanks.” Lucy is sure that she’s not going to engage his services, but if it comes up as evidence, she’ll have it on hand. “What, you aren’t going to insist on walking me home?”

“Why would I?” Flynn raises a sardonic dark eyebrow. “You’ve made it clear you’re not interested, I know how to take a hint. You said you’d get a cab, so I assume you’ll do that. Either way, if you don’t know anything to help me, you’re not my problem.”

With that, he spins dramatically on his heel and strides off across the dark cathedral lawn, as Lucy stands there with her mouth open. She is inclined to think she has in fact dodged a bullet in more ways than one, and thus she phones the cab company, waits in the light until they arrive, and, still fuming, goes home.

* * *

 It’s not far from the cathedral to the Ibis budget hotel – just a few steps down the street – and Flynn walks in, purchases a single room, and once he’s shut the door, thumbs out a text to Iris to let her know that he’s found lodging for the night and to double-check that she made it back to campus. She answers with a somewhat terse “k,” which makes Flynn suspect that all might not have been totally forgiven for his abrupt egress from dinner, and that she’s clearly hoping he has not been too rough on her history professor. “Too rough” is a matter of speaking, as Flynn is inclined to think he did the woman a favor by both taking care of the creep and offering her a tangible solution to her present dilemma. Lucy Preston is certainly feisty, and not afraid to give him a piece of her mind, but she doesn’t seem ready to actually commit to fixing this. It wouldn’t even be that hard. She could just ask him. He wouldn’t be ridiculous on the price. So what’s holding her back?

Flynn has to admit that the strong possibility of unearthing sordid family secrets might be a factor, as well as not believing that the sketchy man who turned up suddenly out of the night is a wise choice for future association. And it _is_ true that he should avoid pissing off the office any more. He went to Auckland, just like they said, though he’s getting twitchy about spending the night out of sight of Iris. Maybe he should go to campus and sleep on the lawn, though security would catch him and finger him for a vagrant. But if someone else turns up and he’s not there –

Just then, with perfect and unwelcome timing, Flynn’s phone buzzes on the sideboard. He has an international SIM card that gives him service in a hundred and sixty-two countries, and when he looks at it, it’s “Mom.” All right, then. This is about to go very well or very badly. He takes a breath and picks up. “Hello?”

“Garcia.” It’s Margo, and she doesn’t sound like she’s about to relay uplifting news. “Where are you?”

That’s usually the first question of their interactions, making sure it’s safe to talk, but Flynn has to bite back a waspish answer about how she knows damn well where he is. “Hotel,” he says shortly. “Auckland. Nobody here. So?”

Margo might reprimand him for this lack of courtesy, but she doesn’t bother. With no further preliminary, she says, “Jessica Logan turned up a few hours ago. Alive, but badly wounded. She’d been dumped in a slum in a back alley in Dhaka, and Dr. Khodzhayev’s briefcase is gone. Our people have gotten to her and are airlifting her back here to a private hospital, but she doesn’t know anything about who attacked her.”

“Jesus.” Flynn has to sit down on the bed. He’s relieved that Jessica isn’t dead, though it sounds as if that was just a lucky accident, and either way, her days at NBB are now over. They can’t use compromised agents, couriers who’ve already been recognized and blown, and while she might be in line for a nice severance and compensation paycheck, they could also decide that it was avoidable error on her part and not even do that. Frankly, in a piece of shocking news, NBB can be real dicks.

Still, though. That is peanuts compared to the fact that Khodzhayev’s briefcase is missing. Margo already warned Flynn that its failure to reach its destination would reflect very poorly on both him and the organization, and he doesn’t want that banging around in the wrong hands. He doesn’t know who the _right_ hands would even be, and he has to fight back a stab of total terror. “Do we know _anything_ about this?”

“Of course we don’t. The Bangladeshi police have no idea and we know they couldn’t sort it out. Jessica says she was attacked only an hour or so after she met with you. The perpetrator had to be in the vicinity. I’ve read your reports, and I assume you’re telling the truth, but this is a major crisis. If we don’t find Khodzhayev’s briefcase – ”

Margo doesn’t bother to finish that thought, but Flynn can’t imagine that anything good was going to come after it. Unemployment for him as well, at the very least, and possibly the roll-up of the entire NBB organization, putting a lot of other procurators out of work and giving them a very considerable grudge against him. Larger consequences – dangerous, world-changing consequences – are also not off the table. Finally, although he has no expectation that Margo is going to answer, he says, “Who was originally supposed to get that briefcase?”

Margo hesitates for a long moment. The cardinal rule is that procurators don’t know who they’re working for, that everything is anonymized and third-party, that you can think your clients are whoever or whatever makes you able to carry out the operation. But this is clearly an unprecedented situation, and at last she says, “He’s a prominent billionaire and major tech mogul in Silicon Valley. It’s a crucial part of the research he’s working on right now. He told us at least three times it would be very unfortunate for it to go astray.”

“Shit,” Flynn mutters. He already knew that this was an exclusive and high-risk case, was congratulating himself on handling it so well. The fact that the client is based in Silicon Valley catches at him. Lucy was just telling him about the mess with her mom’s estate, that her sister is flying back to San Francisco to deal with it. Correlation is, of course, not causation, but he notices patterns anyway. “So – what?”

“This is your problem,” Margo informs him bluntly. “You need to fix it. You need to get Khodzhayev’s briefcase back or so help us God. We did have someone else interested in it, in Hong Kong, but the present client outbid him. It’s possible they arranged some kind of on-the-DL attempt to grab it. You’d better get going.”

“I just got to Auckland.” Even Flynn is getting a little tired of a flight a day. “You told me to go here, remember?”

“Well, now I’m telling you to go to Hong Kong. There’s a Mr. Yang there. You may remember him.”

Flynn does remember him, since Mr. Yang is one of the few clients whose name he ever knew. He’s an ultra-rich Hong Kong stockbroker and venture capitalist, and Flynn has worked a few jobs for him in the past. In gratitude, Mr. Yang insisted on inviting him to a few black-tie parties and expensive fundraisers for his firm, which is why Flynn knows who he is. It crosses his mind to wonder if one of Mr. Yang’s rivals decided to go hunting for the secret of his success, or something like that, but he can quibble later. “Fine,” he growls at last. “Was Mr. Yang the one who also wanted the briefcase?”

“I think you’d better find that out.” Margo utters a short, unamused laugh. “Good night.”

Once he’s sure that they have in fact hung up, Flynn sits down on the bed and says all the curse words he knows. Given how many languages he speaks, that is a lot of curse words, and it takes him several minutes to run the reel, by which time he does not feel measurably better. Well, this should be _great_ fun to sort out, and he can’t imagine that Iris, having just learned that her father is an international man of mystery with a long-running and mostly classified job of relative morality, will be thrilled that he immediately has to pack up and run off again. It was what he did before, and that doesn’t change now that she knows a little more about it. Plus, it’s not technically winter break yet, he’s not breaking any promises. But he knows those are hollow justifications, and they taste just as sour on his tongue.

Grimly, Flynn opens his laptop and begins searching for a flight to Hong Kong. The one small mercy is that he can fly direct from Auckland, after his never-ending carousel of connecting flights in the last few days, though it’s still a twelve-hour haul. In fact, if he can leave right now and take a taxi to the airport, there’s a 1:30 AM departure that will get him to Hong Kong tomorrow morning. That’s probably the one the bosses would prefer he take, rather than waste valuable time on something like wanting to say a proper goodbye to his daughter. He looks at the clock. Still not that late. She may be awake.

Flynn clicks to buy the ticket, then gets up, glad that he hasn’t unpacked. He picks up his suitcase and heads downstairs, apologizes to the clerk that something has come up and he needs to leave, and doesn’t bother asking for a refund. He can afford it, after all, and it would take too long. Once he’s in the back of a cab heading south to the airport, he grits his teeth, takes out his phone, and calls Iris.

“Dad?” She picks up fairly quickly, sounding concerned. “You texted earlier, what’s up?”

Flynn supposes that talking to each other so often in one day is an anomaly that needs prompt explanation, and isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “I – ” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but something came up at work. It’s a major emergency, it’s a mess. I’m – I’m on my way to Hong Kong, I don’t know how long I’m going to be there. I’m – I know I said that I was going to hang out in the city a bit, but – well. It can’t wait.”

There’s a long and very uncomfortable pause. For all he knows, Iris is relieved that he’s blowing town early, but she doesn’t sound like she’s jumping up and down. At last she repeats, carefully toneless, “Hong Kong.”

“Yes. “

“I suppose it’s noteworthy that you actually told me where you’re going? Dad, this isn’t related to whatever you did with Professor Preston earlier, is it? I swear, if you – ”

“No, it’s not, it’s different. We just talked, she – she didn’t know what I thought she might know about. She went home, I promise, I didn’t do anything.”

Iris is quiet for a long moment. Flynn can hear her breathing. Then she demands, “Are you in danger? Earlier, you said you weren’t, you said everything was fine. Was that a lie too?”

“Honey – ” Flynn winces, wondering if he should have taken the airport shuttle bus, just because he doesn’t like the feeling of having the taxi driver two feet away as personal witness to this conversation. He’s probably not listening, but still. “Look, it’s complicated, all right? Like I said, there was a mix-up with my last job and I need to work it out. I’ll still most likely be back in time for our winter trip. Tahiti, maybe. Do you want to go to Tahiti instead?”

Iris doesn’t answer. He knows that she’s not a child to be bribed with a lollypop, or a tempting choice of exotic vacation destination, but it’s all he can think of. Then she says, low and level, “Are you going to promise that for sure, Dad? Are you really? Because honestly, I think for both of our sakes that you probably shouldn’t.”

“Iris – ” Flynn’s cheeks sting as if they’ve been slapped. It’s true that he has no idea how long this visit to Hong Kong might take, let alone anything after that, and what it will require to track down Khodzhayev’s briefcase. He’s used to doing this, making soothing placations, whatever it was that he thought she needed to hear, until he has no idea what she actually does. “All right. There’s a chance this could take longer.”

“Big surprise.” Iris doesn’t sound angry, exactly. She sounds tired. “Olivia invited me to spend the break with her family, I guess I’ll plan on doing that. Have fun.”

“It’s not about fun.” Flynn rubs a hand over his jaw. “It’s work. I don’t _want_ to be doing it instead of hanging out with you.”

“But we know which one you picked,” Iris points out, with that cool, ruthless pragmatism that (among other things) she has definitely gotten from him. “I’m not blaming you. You do an important job and important people rely on you. Anyway, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine by myself. As usual.”

“Iris, look – ” Flynn feels overstretched, panicked, unable to count on protecting her, that he might fail her like he failed Lorena. He wants to think that the office will keep their grubby paws off his daughter, as long as he’s doing what they want, and as far as he knows, NBB has never kidnapped a procurator’s loved one, or anything distasteful like that, to ensure their cooperation. But they are entering uncharted waters, and those insinuations about knowing Iris’s whereabouts were hard to forget. “If anything happens, anything weird, if you see anything, just – call me, all right? I don’t care what time it is, just call me.”

“Why?” Iris demands. “Is someone after _me_ now too?”

“I – ” Flynn’s mouth feels like ash. “No, probably not.”

 _“Probably not?”_ Iris’s voice rises shrilly. “What are you – and what, I’ll call you and you’ll just – what? Swoop in on whatever thirteen-hour flight it takes you to get back from wherever you are? I’ll call the cops like an ordinary person, Dad. Or campus security. Or anyone else whose actual job it is to show up. Talk to you later.”

With that, the line goes dead. Flynn stares at his phone as if it’s turned to a snake in his hand, and leans back against the seat, feeling worse than ever. Well, this night has turned to a gigantic steaming pile of shit faster than anyone could have seen coming. First that abortive interview with Lucy Preston, then the Khodzhayev briefcase bombshell, a hurried exit in the night to Hong Kong and God knows what, and now Iris almost certainly hates his guts and thinks he’s the worst father in the universe. Flynn isn’t entirely sure that he’s not, and can’t think of anything to say in his own defense. All the trouble that Iris might be in is a direct result of the tornado of trouble currently swirling around him, enveloping her by association, and he knows that there is not much admirable about any of the choices or actions that have set it off. All his old excuses sound flimsy. He knows he’s blown it, hard, and for the foreseeable future, that is how it is going to remain.

They reach the airport in fifteen more minutes, Flynn pays the driver, and goes inside to check in. At least security is quick this late, and he doesn’t have to smuggle international contraband through, which is always a plus. He dozes fitfully at the gate until they start boarding around one AM, and trudges aboard the big Cathay Pacific jet with a bunch of other groggy businessmen who are probably heading to morning meetings in Hong Kong tomorrow. (Not, one hopes, of the same sort as him.) Of course he has a middle seat – which, for a six-foot-four man on a twelve-hour flight, is a punishment that he deserves for his sins. But nothing else was available last-minute, and he will just have to deal with it.

They push back and take off more or less on time, as Flynn watches the glittering lights of the city through his neighbor’s window, falling away beneath them. He has flown out of just about every major city on the planet, but he still notices how each of them look at night, when you enter the strange liminal space of the dark sky, when you almost seem close enough to touch the stars. Flynn usually finds it peaceful, but he doesn’t now.

It’s a long time. There’s nothing but ocean for most of it, and they’re heading back above the equator, so it will once more be late spring by the time they land. Flynn starts reeling through his mental rolodex of what to do when that happens. The one perk of going to visit Mr. Yang is that he will roll out the red carpet – he loves Flynn, in part because he is under the impression that he is Flynn’s only client. Flynn has retrieved various items for him, both for Mr. Yang’s business and for his eclectic personal collecting tastes, and he can probably get him to divulge whether he had an interest in Khodzhayev’s briefcase. Margo said it was for a tech billionaire, and like most oligarchs in China, Mr. Yang has a controlling interest in all kinds of tech production centers and Apple factories. If he heard that his American competitors wanted something special, he may have gone for it first.

The sky is pink and blue, the mountains silhouetted around the harbor and the countless skyscrapers glowing like jewels, as they finally come in for a landing. It’s close to nine AM, so the rush in the airport is immense, and Flynn is squashed from all sides as he looks down on the heads of almost everyone around him. When he finally makes it through immigration on the John Thompkins passport and retrieves his luggage, he stands in the gleaming ultra-modern arrivals foyer and decides that he’s not going to take the train into downtown. Instead, he pulls out his phone and makes a quick call.

Twenty minutes later, Flynn is in the back of an air-conditioned limousine purring down the North Lantau Highway en route to inner Hong Kong, as the airport is located on one of the outer islands, and Mr. Yang’s driver assures him that they can stop anywhere he would like for breakfast or shopping. Otherwise, Mr. Yang has ordered the visitor apartment prepared for him, and would like to welcome him to relax. He is busy in meetings all day, but is very much looking forward to receiving him this evening. Flynn tries to think if this is unusual or not. Mr. Yang doesn’t seem to be expecting anything, or he’s just acting as he normally does to deter suspicion. He can’t have had much advance notice that Flynn was coming, so it’s not as if he had time to put some elaborate plot in place, and as noted, they _do_ have a good relationship. Maybe this will (for once) be easy.

As they hit morning traffic in the city ring roads, Flynn fights away a sensation of floating disorientation, as he had only intermittent sleep on the plane and is starting to lose all sense of physical bearings or root to a place whatsoever. Once more, for no apparent reason, he finds himself thinking about Lucy Preston. He wasn’t too harsh on her, was he? No, he was clear, to the point, logical, and offered her a solution. He handled it just fine. He blew it with Iris, yes, but his work with Lucy is beyond reproach. He’s not sure why he’s glanced at his phone a few times, as if wondering if she might have changed her mind and called. Why did he tell her about Lorena, about why it was surreal to step into a Catholic church for the first time in so long? He didn’t owe her that information, and personal tidbits can be compromising.

They finally glide free of the traffic and pull into the portico beneath Mr. Yang’s building, which is one of the ritziest of Hong Kong’s many high-rise luxury apartment complexes. Like everywhere else in this place, it goes straight up. Glass and steel glitter coldly, casting rays of artificial sunlight in the urban canyonlands, as the river of people rushes by at the bottom. Mr. Yang’s driver gets the door, and Mr. Yang’s butler appears to escort Flynn inside and up to the guest apartment. It’s one floor below the penthouse that sprawls across the entire top of the building, and it’s fancier than most five-star hotels. Once the door has shut behind him and his feet have sunk three inches into the plush carpeting, Flynn is too tired to think about anything else just now. He wonders if he should text Iris that he’s arrived, or if that will just make her madder at him, and falls asleep almost literally before he finishes.

He sleeps like the dead for five hours, wakes up groggy and confused in midafternoon, and takes a shower, then steps out to the tall floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook the harbor. Rain is sweeping in off the mountains, dappling the water and smearing the countless glowing neon lights, and he stands there, dissociating, until he finally blinks and struggles back to himself. For some reason, he was thinking about Lucy again. Distracting.

Flynn amuses himself with the various futuristic gadgets in the apartment until around six o’clock, when there’s a knock on the door, the butler arrives to collect him, and Flynn is chauffeured to the glitzy downtown steakhouse where Mr. Yang is waiting. Flynn has shaved, scrubbed, and put on a jacket and tie, so he doesn’t look totally disreputable, and Mr. Yang rises to his feet, beaming broadly. “Mr. Thompkins! It is always so good to see you here!”

Flynn shakes his hand heartily, agrees that it is, and they sit down in the atmospherically mood-lit corner, as Mr. Yang orders plenty of drinks and shoos off his earpieced attendants so they can talk alone. “Well,” he says. “What can I do for you? Business? Pleasure?”

“Business.” With that, doing his best to sound innocuous and ordinary, Flynn explains part of the situation and whether Mr. Yang might have his ear to the ground on anyone who would be interested in said briefcase. He does his best to imply that this might include Mr. Yang himself, without outright accusing him of thievery, and makes sure to include plenty of compliments and remembrances of good times past. “So,” he concludes apologetically. “I was hoping you might have some idea…?”

“I’m not sure what briefcase you mean.” Mr. Yang taps his fingers, considering. “But for the man who wants it, I think that would be Connor Mason.”

“Connor Mas – ?” Flynn possibly should have thought of him as an option, but there are a lot of billionaires with technology interests in his world, and he’s so used to total incuriosity where his clients are concerned that it’s not a natural reflex. _“The_ Connor Mason?”

“Yes.” Mr. Yang nods. “One of my interns has interesting reports on what he is doing, at Mason Industries.”

Flynn isn’t in the least surprised that there’s a thriving corporate espionage industry in the high-tech world, but with this surprising vein of information tapped, he tries to think how to excavate it. Connor Mason is a British-born tech entrepreneur in the Elon Musk mold (though hopefully less of a dick, because Elon Musk is the worst), who builds super-fancy cars and cutting-edge software and has an annual robotics convention and endowed scholarships at Caltech and so on and so forth. Inspirational rags-to-riches story and all that. He is in fact the exact kind of person who’d like to learn more about Khodzhayev’s work, but Flynn still can’t think what for. Not that it matters. It sounds like he was getting the briefcase for Mason, someone objected to Mason having it, and performed a smash-and-grab on Jessica. But how? How could they possibly know, be in the perfect position to take it? They can’t have. Unless there _is_ a mole of their own, somewhere in the murky, inscrutable hierarchy of this godforsaken company. NBB isn’t the only horse in this race, after all. It exists under a broad black-market umbrella. If someone else in this secret world decided to call dibs…

Flynn shakes his head, wonders if he should be drinking so much on an empty stomach and a bad case of jet lag, and then decides it’s a necessary medicinal decision. Besides, he’s from Eastern Europe, he can hold his liquor. “So you don’t know about it?”

“Should I?” Mr. Yang’s eyes gleam speculatively. “If it is important, perhaps I would like to know about it, yes? How much are they paying you to retrieve it, John?”

“They’re – ” Flynn tries to think how to make it clear that he can’t re-sell the briefcase without literally dying, while at the same time keeping Mr. Yang cooperative. “How much were you thinking of paying me?”

“That is my shrewd friend.” Mr. Yang chuckles. “How much would you like? It would not be a problem, if it proved to be a solid investment for me.”

“We’ll see.” That sounds open-ended enough to keep his hopes up, while not actually committing to anything. It seems at least that Mr. Yang wasn’t responsible for snatching the briefcase from Jessica in Dhaka, as otherwise he would have it by now. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Mason, anything that might be useful?”

“He will be at a major conference in Budapest, a week from now,” Mr. Yang says. “It is at the European Institute of Innovation and Technology. I am also attending.”

Flynn chews on that. The EIT is the EU headquarters for research and development in technology, and obviously Hungary is a place he is very familiar with and can operate in easily. POT, in other words (to which this assignment has indubitably gone, in the usual sense of the phrase). He hopes that he won’t have to march in and collar Mason there, but it’s better to have a preliminary lead. Besides, Mason is almost certainly the one who paid NBB to have Flynn get the briefcase for him. He is therefore unlikely to be thrilled about its ominous and unexplained disappearance, and Flynn should refrain from open approach. Maybe just go and hang out unobtrusively and see if anyone _else_ turns up, perhaps offering to sell the briefcase to Mr. Mason at wildly extortionate prices.

Mr. Yang asks if Flynn would like to attend the conference, as he can take care of getting him a credential through his company, and Flynn tries to think what to say. He does need it, but there’s still the fiddly fact of Mr. Yang being unaware of his other clients, and Flynn can’t exactly tell him that all the wrath of NBB will come down on his head if he screws this up. Finally, he agrees, just to have it in his back pocket as an option. Mr. Yang seems set to stay parked here for a while, since hours of after-work drinks are a big tradition in Asia, and his employees won’t be arriving quite yet, since they’re all putting in overtime. The Japanese term for death due to too much work is _karoshi,_ the equivalent in China is _guolaosi_ , and it’s becoming a major social problem. Coincidentally, Flynn is also in danger of death from work, but in a rather different fashion.

Mr. Yang is happy for him to stay, but Flynn is starting to feel even the two drinks he’s had, and asks if the driver can take him back to the apartment. Mr. Yang is surprised and somewhat disappointed, as he enjoys showing off his James Bond-esque friend to his colleagues, but graciously agrees, and Flynn leans his pounding head against the seat as they drive through downtown, pulses of neon driving through his eyelids like brightly colored nails. For the first time, he wonders if it’s possible that he just can’t do this anymore, that he is in fact getting too old to race around the world with wild abandon. You don’t bounce back nearly the same at forty-three as you did at twenty-three, after all. When you’re twenty-three, you also don’t have eighteen-year-old daughters whose lives you have mostly missed, so much time that you can’t get back. He’s always thought it was most important to procure for Iris like he did for everyone else, to get things, to make sure she had all the material comfort and stability she could need, and the rest would sort itself out. Now he’s starting to think that the damage is much deeper than either of them realized, and he doesn’t know what to do.

They reach the high-rise, and Flynn stumbles inside, feeling like a lightweight. He rides the elevator up to the visitor apartment, undresses, and falls face-first into bed, head spinning. He needs to call Iris, he thinks murkily. He needs to call Iris and make sure everything is all right. But he’s clearly not managing that now, or soon, and instead, he passes out.

It’s some indeterminate time later when he stirs, feeling so wretched that it slowly occurs to him that this wasn’t, or at least he’s fairly sure, merely attributable to two drinks while jetlagged. There’s a foul, dry, burned taste in his mouth that he recognizes as the after-effect of a fairly common roofie, and the realization that he was drugged makes him sit bolt upright, then grimace and fall back flat on the bed. Who the – ? It wasn’t Mr. Yang, Flynn was with him the whole time, and besides, Yang loves him. Someone working in the steakhouse bar, someone who made the drink? What did they want? If they realized _he_ was the procurator who originally stole Khodzhayev’s briefcase, they would have – what? Used cyanide instead of Rohypnol? Do they want him dead, or did they just want him unable to interfere? They probably figured he was one of Mr. Yang’s bodyguards, since he _does_ have that look. And if they were drugging Mr. Yang’s bodyguards, that could mean that they –

Flynn remains immobile for a moment longer, then surges clumsily to his feet. He doesn’t know who “they” are, whether they realized who he really was or not, or what their overall intentions might have been, but he does know that this is very, very bad. As if it wasn’t before, but it’s spectacularly managed to outdo even that. He is only wearing his T-shirt and boxer shorts, but he doesn’t take the time to get properly dressed, grabbing his gun, sprinting barefoot into the elevator, and hitting P for Penthouse. When the door opens and he runs inside, he has half a moment to think, hopefully, that everything looks fine. Then he sees the feet sticking out from behind the kitchen island.

The world seems to turn bleary, blurry, slow. He takes a step, then another, and looks down.

There’s a spreading pool of blood on the floor, lapping crimson on the immaculate white tiles. It’s not from a bullet wound; it’s clearly intended to look as if he fell and hit his head, alone and drunk in the kitchen late. Maybe this is actually what happened, but absolutely no part of Flynn believes it. He stares, trying to take it in, hoping it will go away. It doesn’t.

Mr. Yang is dead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hong Kong, China**

**6:38 AM HKT**

Flynn’s first response – which he hasn’t felt since his days as a tall, skinny, angry kid in the Croatian army, with a piece of crap Soviet rifle that barely worked and Serb shells screaming overhead – is to bolt. He constrains it with an effort, though he still isn’t sure that he should stay here, or should ever have gone up in the first place. He hasn’t touched anything in the apartment, but his fingerprints were on the glass back at the steakhouse, and there must be a surveillance system that’s capturing him right now, the first to discover the body after being the last to see Mr. Yang alive. The driver and the butler can attest to his appearance and his presence in the guest apartment, and any substantial digging into “John Thompkins” will reveal, of course, that he is a chimaera. There’s no way to conceal the death of a rich, important man. Mr. Yang can’t just be presumed to have disappeared off the face of the planet, and the Chinese authorities _really_ aren’t going to like any hint that someone working for the U.S. has carried out a contract hit on him. Sino-American relations are already fairly frosty. This could end up snowballing into a major diplomatic incident.

All of this flashes through Flynn’s head in about two seconds, as he struggles to decide what the absolute hell to do next. He hasn’t even had a chance to dig into all the reasons, none of them comforting, that someone would kill Mr. Yang, since right now, he just has to make sure he doesn’t end up arrested for it. The Hong Kong police are independent of the PSB of mainland China, so Flynn might avoid a prolonged stint as a scapegoat for Beijing, but if the investigation deepens into who he is and what he was doing in the country, Beijing’s getting involved anyway. Right, first order of business, get out of here. The entire John Thompkins persona will probably need to be scrubbed. But it’s not as easy to construct a fake identity as it used to be. You can’t just stick a name and birthdate on a bogus driver’s license and call it a day. Real people have social media, credit scores, bank records, stored internet searches, education and employment histories, all the vast reams of digital footprints that would ping in even the most cursory of checks. Passports usually can’t be faked anymore; you have to get them from a genuine supplier. And telling NBB that he needs them to manufacture an entire new set of that, after informing them of the murderous reason why, is… not going to go well.

After another frozen moment, Flynn backs up, gets into the elevator without touching anything else or looking around, and rides it to the guest apartment. He gets dressed, throws his things into his suitcase, and briefly considers setting the place on fire, but that would draw even more attention. He is still clumsy and uncoordinated from the lingering effects of the roofie, reels into the elevator, and rides down next to an early-morning gym rat in tennis whites. Once the gym rat gets off at the first floor, Flynn strolls out after him, makes sure the doorman isn’t watching, and then turns off toward the service stairway.

He pushes the door open and jogs down it, into the concrete-block foundations of the high rise. There’s usually a central electrical room in the cellar, or at least there were in the old-build blocks in Xiamen, but he doesn’t know if that’s the case here or not. But there’s a door at the end of the hallway, plastered with “Keep Out” in English and Cantonese and squiggly electric-shock pictographs, and Flynn, of course, goes right on through.

Inside, he’s surrounded by a forbidding, buzzing hum of grey circuit boxes, breakers blinking and bundled wires leading through drilled holes in the permacrete. He’s careful where he steps, just in case, and makes his way across to the bank of switches. If Mr. Yang is any kind of self-respecting tech magnate, he will have backup sources to keep his CCTV running even in the event of a power failure, but this might at least throw a wrench in it long enough to confuse the picture. Literally.

Flynn can’t randomly start yanking live fuses for any number of reasons, but he could at least cut the power, even though it might stop the HKPF from identifying the real culprit. Here, however, said culprit is ahead of him. As he scans the box, he can tell that several major switches have already been pulled, conveniently disabling certain outputs in Mr. Yang’s penthouse. While this is briefly reassuring inasmuch as it means that Flynn himself might not have been caught on camera discovering the body, it also means that these people are not fucking around. Did they also guess that Mr. Yang might have an interest in Khodzhayev’s briefcase, decide they couldn’t risk the possibility that he didn’t, and kill him? The odds of Yang just dropping dead otherwise, even though he must have plenty of enemies, are remote.

Either way, Flynn thinks, it’s pretty clear that someone else badly wants Khodzhayev’s briefcase, that they’re willing to go to all lengths to get it, they’ll kill anyone who might also be involved, and there’s still no way to know where the damn thing is. If the murderers stole it from Jessica in the first place, they’d already have it. Maybe they do, and are just eliminating potential rivals or competitors, but his gut tells him otherwise. The briefcase is still out there somewhere, and unknown operators from all sides are swarming like sharks to a bucket of chum, thrashing and snapping and biting at each other, in their race to get it first.

After another glance confirms there’s not much he can do down there that hasn’t been done already, and not wanting to get caught lurking, Flynn backs out of the electrical room, shuts the door, and leaves through the underground car park, staying close to the wall out of the range of the corner cameras. He emerges in the courtyard walkway, starts to jog, and puts a few hundred meters of distance between himself and Yang’s building, head racing. He’s not sure if he dares to fly out of here as John Thompkins, but the only other passport he has on hand is his real one, and that feels like an even worse option.

He does not want to head in the direction of mainland China, no matter what. The nearest sovereign countries are Taiwan, to the east, and the Philippines, to the south. There _is_ a massive and fairly unregulated container-ship traffic to Manila, and it’s not out of the realm of possibility that he could sneak aboard one of these, which would have the advantage of getting him out of the country without having his documents checked. But he’d have to get to the Port of Hong Kong without raising any suspicion, and while this place is slightly more multi-cultural than the mainland, Flynn, as a tall European man, still sticks out. Besides, he can’t just completely blow everything and bail out. He needs to think logically about any place that the briefcase could be, and cross everything crossable that NBB does not call right now in search of an update. Frankly, they’ve caused him enough goddamn problems.

After another moment, Flynn decides that if someone is going after Mr. Yang, there’s a chance – unfortunate, but still a chance – that they know the name of the procurator who originally picked up the briefcase, i.e. him. They haven’t appeared to connect that to his face or his other aliases, and frankly, he really needs to get into a disguise. But if so, that means there’s a possibility that they’ve infiltrated into NBB far enough to access client lists and other confidential data. Which means that anyone else for whom Flynn has ever acquired sensitive technological items could be next on the investigation list/chopping block.

There are numerous and extensive problems with this, not least that he, of course, doesn’t know who his clients are and exactly what he’s gotten for them. And frankly, Flynn isn’t sure it’s his job to go around warning powerful people that someone might want to kill them. But if his unknown enemy also has that list, and is going down it until they either find Khodzhayev’s briefcase or run out of targets, this has only started to get bad. It’s not like Mr. Yang was some random nobody. He had a fancy penthouse, video cameras, underlings, security, an entire empire. If someone has managed to assassinate him and get away with it, they are very good at their job. Possibly even better than Flynn. And if nothing else, he also needs to get that fucking briefcase.

Right, then. The problem of getting out of here is still foremost, but first he needs to do some research. There have been a few too many police cars going by already, and while Flynn doesn’t know if it’s because someone else has found Mr. Yang’s body, he can’t wait around to find out. He walks faster, and doesn’t look back.

Thirty minutes later, he’s in a dim teahouse in Kowloon, opening his laptop, and accessing all his password-protected, double-encrypted, invisible-on-the-hard-drive files. After all, he has to write a report after every job, and while he’s not supposed to retain any copies of said reports after he has passed them onto NBB, Flynn doesn’t feel that he should necessarily do everything they say. After all, if discrepancies or disturbances crop up, he’s not so foolish as to leave them with all the documents and no way to check them for himself, and he is a meticulous record-keeper. There are no names of clients, but there are the names of the people he worked with, locations, times, dates, briefing on the retrieval process, and note of any complications. Here and there, he can make out a hint at what the pickups were, and from there, he can start scratching together a rough shortlist.

Flynn is just trying to decide if the job in Brussels in 2016, or the job in Buenos Aires in 2011, would appear more tempting to his opponent (that is, if it’s not clearly the job in Tangier in 2015), when his phone buzzes. This gives him a start for obvious reasons, and he’s about to ignore the call altogether, protocol or no protocol, when he sees that it’s Iris. Given how their last conversation ended, she isn’t likely to be calling him unless it’s important, and he pauses, then picks up. “Hello?”

“Dad?” Iris sounds hesitant. “Hey? Is this a good time?”

“Yes, honey. Of course.” Flynn’s so relieved that she’s voluntarily deciding to speak to him again that it overrides everything else. It’s clear that she’s suddenly gotten a lot more self-conscious about interrupting him, knowing (part) of what he actually does for a living, and he has to fight the guilt. “What’s going on?”

“I just…” Iris pauses again. “This morning, I kind of thought I saw someone looking up at my dorm window, and then he was there again when I got out of class just now. It’s probably nothing, but it freaked me out a little, and I thought of what you said, and…” She trails off again. “Anyway, I called campus security already, I’m sure they’ll take care of it, and I guess you’re in Hong Kong or wherever, so don’t – I mean, it’s fine.”

Flynn experiences a sensation like falling through thin ice, taking one misstep and plunging through into the freezing dark water below. Auckland is four hours ahead of Hong Kong, so it’s – he checks his watch – just past two PM there. That means that Iris saw the man when she got out of Lucy’s class. That also means that, theoretically, this individual is watching both Iris _and_ Lucy. It could just be Iris, although that’s bad enough, but if one person is monitoring them both, it means that the mystery of Lucy’s mother’s money is very likely of interest to NBB. Or possibly, the mole inside NBB who is passing information to its rivals.

“Dad?” Iris says tentatively, when Flynn doesn’t answer. “Am I bothering you?”

“No. No, of course not. Thank you, I’m very glad you called. Iris, look, I’m going to come back to Auckland, all right?” He can’t stay in Hong Kong either way, and would do well to make himself scarce. “Just… stay on campus or with people. Just in case.”

“Okay.” Iris sounds like she’s trying to be brave and brush it off, but all he can hear is his little girl being terrified, and it’s the worst thing in the world. “I, uh, I invited Olivia to binge-watch some Netflix, we’ll be fine. Honestly, Dad, you don’t have to come back. I’m sure whatever you’re doing is important. And it probably wasn’t anything.”

“I just…” Flynn tries to think how to tell her something honest, but not too honest, and sobering, but not too sobering. “I’d like to have a look. Iris, you are the most important thing to me, all right? I know you’ve had a lot to take in over the last few days, and I’m sorry, but I mean it, and I always have. My – my work is done here for now anyway. I can’t get back immediately, but there’s a flight that leaves tonight, I can be there by tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” Iris says again. “Are you – did everything go fine?”

Flynn wonders if being drugged, discovering the murder of a major and important client, a possible conspiracy to kill more of them, and the likely infiltration of your shadowy organization by hostile third parties qualifies as “fine,” even for him, and then decides that no, it doesn’t. “It’s complicated,” he says. “Call me if you see the man again. Did you – did you think there was any chance he was also there to keep an eye on Lucy?”

“At Lucy?” Iris sounds confused. “Dad, _what_ did you do to her?”

“Nothing. She just – she said a few things that might be interesting, for what’s going on.”

“I don’t know? He might have been, it was hard to tell. I won’t see her again until next week. Anyway.” Iris sighs. “I just… yeah. Bye, Dad.”

“Bye,” Flynn echoes, and hangs up in a more-than-mild daze. He has faced a lot of less-than-optimal situations in this job, but this is by far the worst, and the only one that is threatening to spill so damagingly into his personal life. He’s been good at building barriers, about raising walls, about keeping Iris out of this world and blissfully none the wiser. But now all of those are coming down, he doesn’t know what to do about that, and feels like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. Make one wrong move, and it all blows to hell.

Flynn finishes up his tea, packs up his computer, and heads out. He wonders briefly if the man assigned to tail Iris is the same one he punched out in the alley the other night, who might be inclined to extra vindictiveness because of it, and then decides that he doesn’t need to give himself any more reasons to panic. If he does, he will lose his focus, that will make him sloppy, and with no way to know anything about who or what he’s up against, any slip could snowball. He still feels grim, and thus the obligatory twelve-hour hiatus on an airplane, which is becoming an almost daily occurrence for him, might actually be welcome. At least he can be relatively certain of safety if he sleeps there, which is not at all a given elsewhere.

There definitely looks to be a lot of police activity going on in downtown, and traffic is bumper-to-bumper, as Flynn heads into the central train station and gets on the Metro toward the airport. The TV screens in the cars are showing the news, there is a large picture of Mr. Yang above a scrolling ticker of text, and Flynn does not need to speak Cantonese to know what the newsreader is saying. He keeps one eye warily on the displays, in case a composite sketch resembling him flashes up, but nothing. Maybe he’s above suspicion since the driver can attest that he took him home from the steakhouse early. Or maybe that makes him more suspicious. His head hurts.

Flynn reaches the airport, wearily purchases a ticket to Auckland on the six o’clock PM Air New Zealand departure, and figures that since John Thompkins is definitely at least wanted for questioning and all the other rules are out the window anyway, he might as well use his real passport. He feels as if a giant red light is flashing above his head the entire time, but it allows him to pass through security without being stopped and pulled aside, and frankly, maybe there’s some strategic value in sending up a ping, if his enemy is so plugged in as to get one. He’s shadowboxing with smoke, and anything that might force them to make a move, to reveal themselves, would be welcome. He still has to decide if he’s going to Tangier after this, as he’s increasingly sure that would be the next stop on the murder bucket list (though there is, of course, no guarantee that his client is anywhere near there). There’s also the conference in Budapest that Connor Mason is attending next week. If someone targeted Yang, they’re almost certain to go after him too.

Flynn shuffles aboard the plane and wonders if he can just grow wings to make this all more efficient, as even for him, this is a lot of traveling. He falls asleep fifteen minutes after takeoff, doesn’t so much as flicker an eyelash for ten hours, and wakes up just as they’re starting the descent into Auckland the next morning. He feels much better, albeit stiff and badly dehydrated, and once they have landed and he has been let back into the country, he buys several water bottles and drinks them all. Then he calls Iris.

To his relief, she picks up, sounding sleepy. It’s Saturday, so she was probably not planning to get up for another few hours. “Dad? Hey.”

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s me, I just got back. I’ll get the bus from the airport, I should be there around eleven-thirty. Anything to report?”

“No, I’m fine. I stayed in, like you said.” Iris yawns. “Did everything go all right in Hong Kong?”

“Yeah,” Flynn says, glancing up at the sky to check for smiting lightning bolts. He can hear murmuring in the background, and frowns. “Is someone else there?”

“Oh.” Iris sounds slightly flustered. “Oh, it just got late while we were watching _The Great British Bake-Off,_ so Olivia stayed over. I’ll see you soon. Bye? Bye.”

With that, before Flynn can answer, she hangs up, leaving him raising an eyebrow at his phone and happy to be experiencing a relatively normal parental quandary, rather than, you know, a terrifying one. He wonders if Olivia might be somewhat more than a friend, and hopes that Iris doesn’t think it’s something she can’t tell him. Then again, their difficulties in talking about even ordinary subjects are well-chronicled, and she doesn’t know about Matej Radić. They met in the HV when Flynn was seventeen and Matej was a year older, the sort of things happened between them that can happen when scared young men are in the middle of a war and need something to cling to, and then they went their separate ways. Flynn met Lorena when he was twenty-two, and like a lot of young Croatian couples eager to rebuild after the war, they got married quickly and settled down. Iris was born two years later, on December 31, 1999 – they always called her their Y2K baby, had a bet about which millennium she would be born in, and whether the world would come to a grinding halt on the first day of her existence. It didn’t, of course. And yet, it changed. It all changed.

It was after Lorena’s death, when Flynn had moved Iris up to live with his mom in Šibenik, that he and Matej ran into each other again, their old attraction rekindled, and for two years, quietly, they were together. Only ever stayed over at his place, never made any public displays of affection, never told anyone else. Maria guessed, before she died, but that was it. Matej wanted more, said that he was willing to make their relationship into something real, but Flynn refused. Didn’t feel comfortable introducing him to Iris as his partner, to admit that he could move on from Lorena, to deal with everything else that might have gone with it, so he ended things without much ceremony. It was one of the major reasons he decided to leave Croatia and move to America, and perhaps one of the reasons he took this job. As long as he kept moving away from it, not looking back, it couldn’t hurt him.

Flynn gets onto the Skybus and rides into Auckland. He is gripped with an odd urge to call Lucy and see how her night was, but he didn’t get her number, only left her with his, and she hasn’t had any apparent volition to call it. Fine, her loss, and since Flynn has more than enough to be getting on with, he doesn’t need to heap her issues on the fire. But if her mother’s money _is_ tied to NBB, or to NBB’s rivals… if those accounts might have been drained both to cover up their existence and to use the money for something such as, say, purchasing the services of whoever killed Mr. Yang, who might be aiming for the others…

That is a startling thought, and Flynn wonders if it’s a legitimate hunch, or just a paranoid search for any kind of pattern, no matter how far-fetched. He could probably find out where Lucy lives, but turning up on her doorstep out of nowhere might be a little much even for him. But she said that her sister was going to fly to San Francisco to deal with this, and if that’s so, and certain people would rather that this was not uncovered, that could put her sister in considerable danger. And the last thing Flynn needs is _another_ corpse on this case.

He gets off the bus in downtown, debates briefly with himself, and texts Iris to see if she’s all right with him taking a detour. Once she’s confirmed that everything is quiet on the home front, Flynn sits in Albert Park, across the street from campus, and mulls his options. He doesn’t think walking into the HR department and demanding a faculty home address is going to work, although you never know, it might. But if there have been other attempts to get hold of Lucy’s personal information, it might be easier to hack the database. Then again, hacking is incredibly boring and takes hours, no matter what the movies want you to think, and he is a goddamn professional. He should be able to figure this out.

After a few more minutes, Flynn sighs deeply, gets up, and goes into the public toilet. He takes out his case of disguise materials, applies his fake beard, exits the toilet, and heads to a nearby secondhand vintage clothing store to buy a tweed jacket with elbow patches and a newsboy cap. Once he has added a scarf and thus looks sufficiently boho-academic, he digs around for another of his fake business cards, which introduces him as Goran Vuković, professor of medieval history at the University of Zagreb. With this vital document in hand, he heads into the humanities department, successfully convinces the receptionist that he has a meeting with Lucy on Monday, and manages to obtain her phone number. From there, it is relatively simple to search for her address; in fact, it comes up in less than five minutes, because every major conglomerate knows everything about you and you should be very scared. It’s in Ponsonby, a thirty-odd-minute walk from here.

With one final glance around campus, Flynn passes by Whitaker Hall to make sure nothing sketchy is happening there, and sets off at a brisk clip to the suburbs. He wonders why exactly he’s doing this, especially when Lucy didn’t seem keen on having him help. But he’s not a total monster, and besides, he isn’t going to let a couple of oblivious civilians wander into the middle of this and cause even more headaches for him. It’s the pragmatic thing to do, and he needs to _try_ to minimize his problems.

Since it’s the weekend and the weather is decent, there are a lot of couples and families out at farmer’s markets and other such normal activities, which annoy Flynn for getting in his way. The end result, after he has practically plowed through a sidewalk stand and annoyed some hippies, is that it takes him close to an hour to actually get to Lucy’s house, a tiny sand-colored bungalow on a hilly street. At least it’s not cordoned off with crime scene tape, and he takes a moment to be relieved. Then he trucks up the steps and raps on the door.

There isn’t an immediate answer, leading him to wonder about the likelihood of breaking it down. Then he hears footsteps, the deadbolt is undone, and Lucy opens it. It looks like he’s interrupted her in the middle of Saturday housecleaning, since she’s wearing an old flannel shirt and ratty jeans, her hair is pulled back in a messy knot, and she’s holding a spray bottle. She also doesn’t immediately recognize him with the beard and jacket, and he sees her visibly tense at the unexplained appearance of a large man on her doorstep. She takes a step back. “I’m sorry, do we – ”

“It’s me,” Flynn informs her. “From the other night. Open the door, we need to talk.”

For another instant, there is still no recognition in her face. Then it hits, and her eyes flare, then go narrow. _“You?_ How did you find me, exactly?”

“Not important. Well?”

Lucy doesn’t budge. “What’s with the. . . look?”

“It’s a professional necessity.” Flynn is getting impatient. After all, he is doing her a considerable favor by going this far out of his way in the first place, and she is taking up more time. “I told you I had a certain kind of job, didn’t I? So – ”

“So you’re a spy?” With the disguise and the general demeanor, this is not an unreasonable assumption for Lucy to make, though frankly, most people would think it sounds a lot cooler. She doesn’t look terribly impressed. “Who are you working for? Are you one of those Russian agents that spreads misinformation on Twitter and hacks elections?”

“I’m not a Russian agent.” At least, Flynn thinks, not without something _really_ going sideways, and there’s no guarantee that he hasn’t been one in the recent past, last job included. “It’s about your sister. I think she might be in danger.”

That, despite herself, catches Lucy short. She raises an eyebrow as if wondering why he didn’t just lead with that, and clearly more than half suspects that he’s responsible for it, but she considers a moment more, then jerks her chin, steps back, and lets him in.

Flynn follows her through the small house to the even smaller kitchen at the back, fighting an instinctive urge to stoop. A mop bucket and a few cleaning products are strewn around, the vacuum is sitting on the carpet, and it’s clear that Lucy would like him to say whatever he’s come to say, preferably deal with it on the spot, and then disappear again. There might be a vestige of residual politeness for Iris’s sake, but the gaze she turns on him makes clear that he’s on very thin ice. “What’s this about Amy?”

Flynn tries to think how to warn her without sounding overdramatic, revealing he really doesn’t have much evidence, or admitting that the whole thing is pretty much based on a bad feeling he had after cumulative weeks of sleep deprivation, overwork, and stress. Lucy isn’t exactly going to like it either way. Finally, he tells her that he thinks her mother’s money might have been quote-unquote borrowed by someone connected to this whole mess, and that it might have been used for –

He catches himself before he says “contract killing,” since this is already going over like a lead balloon. Besides, even the most confident hitman in the world is not going to charge eight million dollars for a single mark, so there has to be plenty of that budget left over for more nefarious activities. “Well,” Flynn concludes at last, into a deeply forbidding silence. “Iris just – thought the same person might have been watching you, and I thought you should be… careful.”

Lucy blows out a slow, fraught breath. “You mean someone stole it,” she says. “Someone stole my mother’s money. Or at least you _think_ there’s a chance they might have, to do something you won’t tell me about, but which is definitely bad. Mr. Flynn, you have to understand that this sounds like some sort of, I don’t know. Paranoid delusion.”

Flynn supposes it does, but he’s irritated that she won’t just listen to him anyway. He isn’t used to having to deal with this. All the people he meets in his line of work are there because, on the same fundamental level, they are doing the same thing he is. He may need to nudge or prod or otherwise find what they want as the price of their cooperation, but it’s always there, and it always works once he does. Therefore, they have to listen to him by necessity, and someone with no obligation to do that, entirely outside the world of shadows and whispers and intrigue where he lives, is someone he has no idea how to relate to, or convince them from the ground up. Lucy _should_ cooperate, because everyone else does. She _should_ believe him, because the existence of someone out to get you is a daily fact in the rest of his clients’ lives. But she’s just… sitting there. Not believing. Not cooperating. It flummoxes him.

“Let’s say you were right,” Lucy goes on, “and that someone did do this. I’ll admit there is something weird going on with the money, that’s why Amy flew out. But – ”

“When did she leave?” Flynn interrupts. “Has she called you yet?”

“She flew out – ” Lucy attempts to calculate the byzantine time differences where opposite hemispheres, seasons, halves of the globe, and the International Date Line are involved. “At five PM yesterday. She had to connect in Melbourne, then she was going to get to San Francisco at seven PM on the same day she left, which is two PM today. That’s assuming no hang-ups or flight delays or anything, and still not counting customs and baggage and getting to the hotel. I’m not expecting anything until at least tonight. Besides, what am I supposed to say to her? Be careful, there’s possibly some sort of unnamed criminal syndicate after Mom’s Schrödinger money, don’t ask any questions that might get you killed?”

To Flynn’s ears, this is a perfectly reasonable explanation, but he grudgingly supposes that it might not be to someone outside of the business. “I don’t know what you’d say to your sister, you figure it out. So since that’s the case – ”

“Since that’s the case?” Utterly exasperated, Lucy gets to her feet, eyes snapping. “Since that’s the _case?_ I still don’t suppose calling the police like normal people is an option in all this? You just… marched into my life, somehow found my home address, turned up on my doorstep dressed like a beat poet, and spilled this entire deranged conspiracy about Amy possibly being in danger from the goddamn Illuminati or whatever, explained absolutely _none_ of it, acted like I’m the problem for not believing you, and then are going to bail out and leave me to figure it out? Do you even _hear_ yourself?”

Although she very much is shouting at him, is well up in his face despite the height difference, and looks set to yank off his fake beard and bitch-slap him with it, Flynn is aware of a sudden and deeply inopportune enjoyment of the situation. He can’t help it. She’s just so small, and so passionate, and is yelling at the six-foot-four hulking gun-carrying brute in her living room with total impunity, and a strand of her hair has fallen loose out of her messy bun and he experiences an altogether inexplicable urge to tuck it back behind her ear. Her cheeks are pink with righteous fury, and now she’s actually put her hands on her hips like a stern schoolmarm and it’s a lot, and – oh hell, fine, maybe it’s been a while and he happened to notice. But since this is not at all the time, the place, or the woman, he valiantly ignores it, forcing himself not to smile, since that would probably make her angrier. Finally he says, “I just don’t advise involving the police.”

“Why not?” Lucy’s spirit animal is apparently a wolverine. “I’m guessing it’s since everything you do is _terribly_ legal and you’re happy to have them up in your business?”

“The local New Zealand cops don’t know anything about what I do.” Better to be blunt, that’s Flynn’s life philosophy in just about everything. “Or what these people potentially after your sister might do. All you’d do there is waste your time.”

“There have to be others,” Lucy presses. “Interpol, or the FBI, or something. If these people are as dangerous as you’re making them out to be – what?”

Flynn may have laughed a little. He can’t help it. There’s something almost charming about her naïve belief and expectation of the U.S. government to help them, when a good two-thirds of NBB’s budget probably comes from earmarks and pork projects; he _does_ know that the DoD and the CIA are some of their biggest clients, for obvious reasons. “My employers are part of that entire system,” he says. “Highly valued members of critical off-the-books infrastructure. Trust me, the FBI isn’t doing jackshit.”

“Your employers sound like terrible people.” Lucy folds her arms. “So – ”

“And that’s mutually exclusive from them being part of the U.S. government?” Flynn raises an eyebrow. “I thought the two tended to go together these days.”

Lucy opens her mouth, then shuts it. Despite her bravura, she is starting to have the look of a woman who has stepped onto a sandbank and is finding it washing away beneath her feet. Other people might be tempted to go easy on her, but Flynn has little patience for anyone who actually finds it a shock. “Yes,” he says brusquely. “People in power do terrible things to keep that power. You’re a historian. Surely you know that.”

“That’s not what I…” Lucy shakes her head. “So if nobody in the entire American federal law-enforcement system is going to help us, we – _I –_ do what? Strap on a pair of six-shooters and turn into Billy the Kid? That looks way more like your job. Not mine.”

“You can still hire me,” Flynn reminds her. “Especially if these two things do in fact overlap as much as it looks like. I already said I’d give you a discount, so – ”

“Yes.” Lucy shakes her head again, even more scathingly. “The only thing making me hold back from hiring you was worrying about my budget. Which, as a visiting untenured humanities professor under the age of forty and being paid in New Zealand dollars, is about that of your average barista’s. When Amy calls tonight, I’ll tell her to be careful, but otherwise, I have a house to clean, a journal article to second-read, and eight hundred other not-ridiculous, real-life things. So how about you and your beard trot _right_ on out the door?”

“You’re in denial,” Flynn informs her. “You don’t want to think about the fact that your world could possibly be this way, so you’re ignoring it and sticking your fingers in your ears in the hope it goes back to normal. It’s not going to work, and if you think that it will keep you and your sister safe – ”

“Oh, now you’re full of wise advice?” Lucy’s eyes spit like embers. She turns on her heel and stalks down the hall, and he perforce follows, as she opens the front door for him and holds it in a clear invitation to GTFO. Their faces are nonetheless rather close, and Flynn feels that unwelcome frisson again, that awareness of unfortunate attraction, that has most manifested itself when she is shouting at him. That lock of hair is still in her face, and his fingers could fit quite nicely against her cheekbone. “Have a nice day, Mr. Flynn.”

With that, as Flynn feels decidedly like that Chance card with a boot kicking Mr. Monopoly in the behind out the door, it slams shut behind him, leaving him marooned on the front stoop and attracting interested looks from Lucy’s neighbor, who is watering the garden in his underpants. Flynn mutters under his breath and stomps down the steps, since even this unwelcome interest in Lucy is not enough to make him recant his opinion that she’s being extremely foolish. Yes, all right, he hasn’t produced a single shred of concrete proof, he never explained how he found her in the first place, he does sound like a lunatic in a sandwich board predicting the end of days, he wasn’t any help about what she should do with Amy, he told her that she’s on her own and no trusted familiar organization can help her, and that her mother might have been an implicit accessory or funding source to major black-market dealers and dangerous entities, but she should have listened to him anyway.

Flynn marches back into downtown Auckland, still grumbling. He makes a stop-off in another public toilet to remove the beard, then hurries the rest of the way back to campus, since Iris will definitely be out and about by now and he’s getting nervous about having left her this long. To his vast relief, she has just finished brunch in the dining hall with Olivia, and their giggliness as they come out makes Flynn again wonder what exactly is going on here. Since his last interrogation session with Lucy didn’t exactly go well, he refrains from a repeat with Iris, but as Olivia heads off with a final wave over her shoulder, he can’t resist a hesitant, “So, uh, I suppose you like her?”

Iris gives him a furtive, wary look that he recognizes too well as one of his own. “Sure. We’re friends.”

“Of course, I just…” Flynn racks his brain for some way to say “you can tell me anything” without actually saying those words. Their relationship may be based on several things, but honesty is not one of them, and given everything that he’s not telling her, Iris will smell the hypocrisy in an instant. “I just want you to be happy.”

Iris gives him another look, leading him to suspect that that also may be a dangerous road to go down, given the amount of trouble he has landed her in by association. If he wants her to be happy, that look seems to say, he should possibly reconsider all his life choices and maybe also enter intensive therapy, but she doesn’t utter it aloud. Instead she says, “Did you get – whatever it was – sorted out with Professor Preston?”

“Uh – ” Talk about having a minefield of a question turned back on him, until he almost suspects she did it on purpose. “Does she argue that much in class?”

“What?” Iris frowns. “What are you talking about? She’s a perfectly normal – and very good – teacher. Actually. Dad, what exactly do you keep saying to this poor woman?”

“Never mind.” Flynn does not want to be informed how to talk to ladies by his eighteen-year-old daughter, even if a cynic would say that he badly needs a basic refresher. “Have you seen that man again, the one watching you? Can you give me a description?”

Iris hesitates, but explains what he looked like, and Flynn tries to match it in his head to the man he knocked out in the alley. It sounds like a different one, which means this is definitely not just some random sketchy criminal, but a coordinated effort among multiple individuals. If he had any doubts about this being connected to his problems, they’re vanishing swiftly, which is not a comforting thought. Finally, once he’s had a search through the surrounding area for anyone who meets that description, and isn’t altogether surprised that they’re gone, he finally decides that there’s only one thing for it. He’s going to have to call Gareth.

Gareth Jones is something of an open secret among procurators, though he’s also one of the people you don’t call unless you’re really up the shit river. Not because he’s dangerous – in fact, “Gareth Jones” may in fact be his real name to judge from his strong Welsh accent, and he doesn’t appear to have a clue that you might want to go by an alias in this line of work – but because if you have to resort to him, it means you’re out of all other options and are probably also toast. NBB hates him, most likely because he provides many of the same services as the office and charges half the prices, but if they can’t prove you called him, there’s not much they can do. Flynn got his name and number from another procurator, on a two-man job in Kiev a couple years ago. He hopes that Gareth is not dead or otherwise decommissioned by now, because otherwise he’s going to have to have a very uncomfortable conversation with Margo, and nobody wants that.

Once Flynn has seen Iris back to her room (he can’t chaperon her everywhere, can’t keep her contained in her dorm or the library forever, and both of them will get tired of this arrangement very quickly) he finds an out-of-the-way corner of campus, hopes that nobody will come along who might have spoken to Goran Vuković earlier, and digs in his wallet until he finds the battered card. Gareth is supposed to pick up no matter the hour of day or night, so Flynn supposes he’ll shortly find out if that’s true. He punches in the number and waits.

It rings three times, and then there’s a click. A Welsh voice, as promised, says, “Hello?”

“Hello.” Flynn lets out half a breath. “I’d like to order a pizza.”

This is the code he’s been told to use for “I’m a procurator who is in a lot of trouble and I need a favor,” and it appears to pass muster. Flynn informs Gareth that he needs a new American identity in, let’s say, forty-eight hours, and he also needs the name of the client that he did a job for in Tangier, Morocco, in July 2015. Whether or not this client is unexpectedly and recently deceased would also be helpful. Flynn has heard that Gareth himself is an ex-procurator who flipped two middle fingers at NBB and quit, but decided to take a charitable interest in the poor fools still stuck in his old job, and to show up his ex-bosses by doing useful things with less unnecessary dick-jerking. Admittedly, the price that he names for a rush-job new identity is eye-watering, but still less hassle than trying to explain to Margo why John Thompkins is blown, and Flynn agrees. Gareth asks where he is, Flynn tells him, and Gareth says that there will be a FedEx package at the downtown Auckland depot on Monday. Payment should be sent no later than that Friday. Any name he wants in particular?

Flynn has usually been careful to personally curate his fake identities, since if it’s just some randomly generated name with no connection to you, you’re more likely to space out and forget that someone’s addressing you by it. “Matthew,” he says. “Matthew Preston.”

Gareth takes note of that, tells him that he’ll try to call back tomorrow with the information about the Tangier job, and Flynn wonders if NBB just forgot to revoke Gareth’s network privileges, or if even they are vulnerable to sophisticated hackers. Well, he knows they are, if there’s possibly a mole. Is it one of Gareth’s friends, or perhaps Gareth himself, a disaffected ex-employee with plenty of motive to embarrass and undercut NBB after leaving it on bad terms? Is calling Gareth basically giving Flynn’s enemies a ready-made cheat sheet for his new name and plans? If that’s the case, whoever he did that job for in Tangier is basically as good as dead, and they’ll realize that he’s twigged onto the connection. That means a lot _more_ of his clients, if they don’t have Khodzhayev’s briefcase or especially if they do, could also bite the dust in the very near future. Wonderful.

Flynn manages to not to let on about this suspicion, promises that he’ll transfer the payment as soon as he has the package in hand, and takes down the bank information that Gareth provides. Then he hangs up, has another look around Whitaker Hall to see if anyone else is paying undue amounts of attention to Iris’ window, and having found nothing, leaves.

Flynn wanders restlessly along the waterfront, thinks about getting a room at the backpackers’ hostel, and can’t bring himself to voluntarily enter the company of a lot of earnest twenty-something unwashed white people with dreadlocks. He doesn’t want to go back to the hotel he used last time, and he finds himself trying to triangulate a spot somewhere halfway between Lucy and Iris, in case he is suddenly required at one or the other. Given as he apparently keeps managing to make Lucy think less of him every time they cross paths, however, this may be rather too optimistic. Yes, he did choose her last name as the basis for his new identity, but that was a tactical decision. If he looks like a relative, a husband or a cousin or whatever, he may have a better chance of getting information about private family accounts and any shifty activities they may have been used to fund. It should probably be a husband, just for ease of explanation and since any convenient distant cousin turning up for money would be looked at squiggle-eyed, and he wonders if he should call back and ask Gareth for a fake marriage certificate. However, it’s bad manners to marry a woman without her permission, even for purely strategic and non-legally-binding deception purposes, and if the opportunity arises to sort it out later, they can do that then.

Finally, Flynn gets a room at a hotel roughly equidistant between Ponsonby and the campus, wonders if he will be accorded the luxury of an entire weekend without flying anywhere, and then reminds himself that it’s not a vacation, given as one of his identities is wanted for questioning in Hong Kong, Mr. Yang is still dead, Khodzhayev’s briefcase is still missing, and all the other international crises avalanching on his head. But he has to take what small respites he can get, and he stretches out on the bed with a groan. He would be fine with lying here and not moving until Gareth’s package arrives on Monday.

Some indeterminate time passes in this fashion. It gets dark. Flynn considers the idea of supper, but does not proceed to do anything substantial about it. He could walk back and check on Iris’s dorm again, or he could call her, or otherwise justify his existence after several hours of slothful inactivity. He’s just wondering if this place has room service, and deciding that it’s cheap enough that it probably doesn’t, when his phone rings.

Since absolutely nothing good has followed this happening in the last week, Flynn once more debates ignoring it, especially if it’s Margo badgering him for an update. But it could be Gareth with news about his client from Tangier, or it could be Iris, so he groans, rolls over, and looks at it. It is the phone number that he craftily acquired earlier. It’s Lucy.

 _That,_ to say the least, is surprising. If she’s finally been reduced to contacting him of her own volition, after making it clear that she wouldn’t, it – well, he doesn’t think that it’s to tell him that everything is fine and thanks for his concern. He hesitates a split second more, then swipes to answer it and tucks it under his ear. “Hello?”

“Flynn?” Lucy says it as if she doesn’t know what else to call him, if she certainly isn’t going to be all chummy with _Garcia_ and doesn’t want to be quite as stiff as _Mr. Flynn_. She sounds a little unnerved. “Are you still in Auckland?”

“Yes.” Flynn sits up. “What is it?”

“I just…” Lucy trails off. “Amy still hasn’t called. I checked all the airlines, there wasn’t any problem with her flights, she should be there. I called her a few times, but her phone didn’t ring. She did say she’d let me know when she got there, and I just…” She stops. “After what you said earlier, I was just… I’m just a little worried.”

Flynn debates if he wants to respond in a grateful or a satisfying way to this. It is probably not polite to crow _I told you so,_ especially since he turned up well after Amy had actually left and there was no chance for Lucy to try to stop her or warn her beforehand. However, Lucy was practically chasing him out of her house with a broom earlier, and now she’s calling him, albeit only because his dire predictions about something going wrong with her sister’s trip appear to have come to pass. He _could_ inform her that he was right, and he may very well do that later, but in the meantime, it’s another problem. Wouldn’t do to be running short.

“I have a little leftover money from my mom’s estate,” Lucy goes on, when he doesn’t answer. “It’s probably not close to whatever your usual fee is, but if that’s what you wanted to just – I don’t know, do whatever you do and make sure she’s all right, you can have it. Honestly, I still think I should be calling the police, but…”

“I’ll come over.” Flynn reaches for his shoes, albeit with an internal groan. He did make it clear that she should not expect to engage his services _pro bono,_ and he’s still not about to start handing out personal favors, but this is connected to what he’s already working on, so he’s not going to immediately hound her for a check. This will probably only last as long as Lucy can’t get in touch with Amy, and hopefully that is a short time and Amy just had some unexpected snag. But given as the last time there was a delay in checking in somewhere, it was Jessica, and it turned out that she had been badly beaten and had a priceless artifact stolen, Flynn doesn’t think they should chance it. “You’re at home, I take it?”

“Yes. I just – ”

At that moment, something odd happens on the other end of the phone. There’s a distant crash, a noise of alarm from Lucy, and a thump. Flynn can hear the muffled sounds of a struggle, a few high-pitched squeals, and more crashes like something breaking. It does not take a genius to guess that either the creeper from the other night is back, or the man Iris saw, or some other new species of miscreant altogether. Lucy did say that her house had been broken into. If that someone is back – if it this in fact related in any measurable way to whoever killed Mr. Yang –

Flynn doesn’t waste time shouting for her. He doesn’t care if he should go or not.

Instead, he runs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Auckland, New Zealand**

**9:34 PM NZST**

To say the least, Lucy was not expecting this night to be enlivened by her front window breaking, a man in a ski mask jumping through, and a protracted struggle ensuing on her living room floor, as she gropes and thrashes for anything to hit him with or to reach her phone, which has fallen just out of her reach in the ruckus. She isn’t sure if Flynn can still hear this or not, or if he’d bestir himself to do anything about it in advance of a large check clearing in his bank account, but as it stands, he’s the only person who will know anything about it if she also disappears. It seems unfortunately possible. The man has his hands around her neck, and she’s starting to see spots. She isn’t big enough to throw him off.

Still, however, Lucy is tenacious. She is also very angry that her evening has gone from bad (Amy’s missing) to worse (in-home mugging). She kicks as hard as she can, manages to catch her assailant in a sensitive region, and as he curls up like a shrimp, she manages to claw loose, wheezing. As he recollects himself and lunges for her, Lucy grabs the heavy door stick and belts him in the midriff with it, hard enough to fold him once more double. Then she cracks him over the head, and he goes down like a stone. For a moment, she’s not altogether sure she hasn’t killed him.

Breathing hard, Lucy clutches the door stick and wonders if she should prod him with it, but she doesn’t really want him to wake up. If he _is_ dead, what exactly does she do with him? Wrap him in a garbage bag, weigh it down with concrete blocks, and wheel it in a shopping trolley down to the harbor? She doesn’t have a car, after all. This would take a lot of effort, and she doesn’t have a friend of the “hey I just killed a man, can you help hide the body?” variety. She is a nice middle-class girl from California. She has never even been in a bar fight. Oh God, is she going to get in trouble?

She gingerly kneels down and can detect a faint, skipping pulse in the unconscious assailant’s neck, then jumps back when he seems about to stir. He doesn’t, though, and she wonders if she should rifle through his pockets, if there will be a conveniently labeled secret paper or photograph of her. Anything to inform her why she has now been the target of kidnapping and/or assault attempts on almost consecutive nights, if this is in fact connected to Amy’s failure to call, and everything else stupid that’s happening recently. She sits back on her heels, conscious that her hands are shaking. Her neighbors probably heard that. Somebody has to have called the cops, right? Is that a good thing? She doesn’t know anymore.

Lucy is still sitting there in mild shock when she hears more banging at the front door, has a heart attack, and grabs her stick. She speeds into the dark foyer, shrieks and takes a swing at the tall figure looming up, and it is only his reflexes that enable him to duck in time, although she still clips his shoulder and sends him stumbling backward. “What the hell?” an unfortunately familiar voice splutters. “Jesus, Lucy, it’s me!”

“Wh – _you?”_ Yet again, Garcia Flynn has inexplicably turned up out of the big black night, somehow thinks she will be glad to see him after barging into her property uninvited when she's already been attacked once, and has the gall to look affronted, rubbing his shoulder as if she’s actually hurt him. “Why didn’t you _knock?”_

“Because I thought you might not exactly be able to get to the door!” Flynn straightens up with another huff, looking her up and down. “What happened?”

“Someone broke the window. He’s back there.” Lucy points. “I don’t know what – ”

Flynn doesn’t wait for her to finish, as he’s already pushing past her to the living room. Lucy warily sticks her head out the front door, as someone has switched on their porch light and is looking for the source of the noise. “Hey there, love,” he shouts. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, I just…” Lucy decides on the spot that there’s no real reason to burden Ponsonby at large with this information. “Broke something. My – my boyfriend’s here now to help clean up.”

The neighbor looks at her a little squiggle-eyed, as that definitely did not sound like dropping a glass. “Need me to call anyone?”

“No, I… I think it’s fine now.” Lucy is aware that she sounds like a victim of domestic violence trying to dissuade the police from being involved, and there are blooming bruises on her throat from where the asshole was trying to strangle her, which doesn’t help the impression. “I promise I’m all right. Thanks, though. Like I said, my boyfriend’s here.”

“Right, well, you let me know. My name’s Mack, you knock on my door any hour of day or night.”

“Thanks,” Lucy says again, touched at the reminder that Kiwis are, by and large, generous, decent, and friendly people, and the majority of them are not in fact going to try to throttle her. (That is assuming this guy is from New Zealand at all.) Having thanked Mack once more, she shuts the door and ventures back to the living room, where Flynn is kneeling next to the prone attacker and peeling his eyelids back with a thumb. “Is he – I didn’t – ?”

“No, he’s not dead,” Flynn says, in the tone of someone who has definitely had to make this assessment before. “Just showed up and jumped you?”

“Yes.” Lucy crosses her arms firmly over her chest. She doesn’t feel safe in her own house, and she doesn’t like it. The broken window gapes, the curtains flapping, and she has to fight a strong urge to run. Not as if sprinting out into the dead of night alone is going to make her any safer, but it’s an animal instinct, a primal response, and she tries to steady her wobbly knees. She’s almost more scared now than she was when it was happening.

“Well, you gave him a pretty good wallop.” Flynn checks his eyes again. “If he comes around, he might be fairly woozy. I could take him somewhere and try to get him to talk, but I don’t know if that – ”

“Wait, meaning what?” Yes, Lucy did just concuss the guy, but she isn’t sure that gives them an indefinite license to keep beating on him, and Flynn said _get him to talk_ in the sort of tone that implies that might be forthcoming. “You’re not going to do anything illegal, are you?”

Flynn gives her a look that is downright hilarious in its disbelief. It’s Lucy who is left to realize that the very word “illegal” is almost meaningless in his line of work – which, frankly, does not surprise her, and she wonders if it’s worth it to protest. He’s helped her, sort of, or at least does not seem inclined to actively jump her, but she has no idea who he is or what he does. Still, she doesn’t just want to stand aside and turn a blind eye if he’s going to haul the culprit to some dimly lit garage and break out the pliers and car batteries. “Should we call an ambulance?” she ventures. “He was the one committing a crime, we shouldn’t get into – ”

“I’m not sure that’s wise.” Flynn sits back on his heels. “If he goes to the hospital, yes, he’ll probably be arrested, at least if you file a police report. But then we’re definitely not going to get anything out of him, and it could send up other red flags.”

“Red flags?” Lucy can’t believe that Flynn’s entire concern about this is the pragmatism of how to interrogate the guy – yes, he’s clearly a creep and attacked her, but there are still basic standards of human decency to be observed. “If he’s badly hurt, he should go to a hospital!”

Flynn raises an eyebrow sardonically, as if to say that she was the one dealing out skull-cracking blows even before he got here. Nor does he appear to recognize that cavalierly ignoring an unconscious man might not be as easy for her as it evidently is for him. Finally, sounding aggravated, he says, “Do you have a shed? I’ll take him there and keep an eye on him. If he’s out any longer, it’s a symptom of serious brain damage anyway, so he’d be useless for information. Then I’ll figure out what to do.”

Lucy likes the sound of exactly none of that, but she’s temporarily misplaced her tongue, wants someone else to handle this for a minute, and manages a terse nod, directing Flynn to the small gardening shed at the far side of the backyard. He slings the creep over his shoulder like a sack of beans (Lucy thinks this is definitely not the time to get distracted by noticing his strength) and marches out into the night. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes elapse in tense, muffled stillness. Lucy keeps peering out the kitchen window, but can’t see what’s going on. Does he have friends he was supposed to report to? Is someone else going to come looking?

At last, Flynn reappears, dusting off his hands and looking grimly matter-of-fact. Lucy jumps to her feet. “Is he – is he dead?”

“He is now,” Flynn says, bluntly as a garbage truck. “Wasn’t very helpful, either.”

Lucy lets out a small gasp, putting both hands to her mouth, as the question as to whether she was responsible for killing him sweeps inescapably over her. Seeing her face, Flynn says, “No, it wasn’t you, I finished him off. You have any industrial garbage bags?”

“You are a _psychopath!”_ Lucy backs up, getting the kitchen table between them. “Do you not even – this just happens every night? Apparently? You are – what is _wrong_ with you?”

Flynn looks unspeakably aggravated that she’s choosing now to complain about his tactics (honestly, complaining about everything that he is would take far too long). “I’m trying to deal with the situation,” he says curtly. “Are you going to do that, or not?”

“This situation is – ” Lucy rubs at her eyes, wondering if he’ll disappear if she blinks very hard. “There’s now a dead man in my back garden, who you apparently snuffed after deciding he didn’t have any useful intelligence? Is that what you call _dealing_ with it?”

“Look, just – ” Flynn waves an impatient hand. “Do you have any trash bags or not?”

Since she’s still completely dumbstruck, and she doesn’t want to take the risk of him suddenly turning on her, Lucy steps aside and wordlessly indicates the heavy black leaf bags in the drawer. Flynn helps himself to the box and a roll of duct tape, proceeds back out, and Lucy supposes that she’s lucky she doesn’t hear him revving up the chainsaw. (Not that she owns a chainsaw, but she’s not ruling out the possibility that he just carries one around for occasions like this.) Finally, she hears the back gate open and Flynn make his corpse-carrying exit into the alley. She sits down with a sudden conviction that she might faint, and looks at her phone, in case Amy called in the kerfuffle and she missed it. She hasn’t.

Lucy sits at her kitchen table, head in her hands, until the sliding door opens and Flynn reappears, sans dead guy. Where on earth (or water) he now is, Lucy does not want to know. “You have bleach?”

Lucy drearily jerks her chin at the sink, Flynn mixes himself up some amateur crime-scene-cleaning solution, and vanishes again to apply it to the shed. She is beginning to feel completely out of her own body, which tends to happen when the evening ends with murder, and waits almost docilely until he reappears to provide the same treatment to her living room. When the whole place reeks of chemicals, he heads over and says, “Let me see your hands.”

“I didn’t touch him directly.” Lucy pulls back. “I just – hit him with the stick.”

“You probably touched him when you were fighting,” Flynn points out. “I don’t think anyone is going to swab you for DNA, but we’ll cover our bases.”

Lucy pauses, then decides she doesn’t have the strength to argue, and holds out her hands. Flynn scrubs them vigorously with the bleach solution, which stings a lot even if it’s watered down, and leaves Lucy’s skin feeling cracked and dry. He looks about to suggest that she burn her clothes too (and possibly her entire house), but instead, he stands up. “I don’t think you should stay here tonight. Come on.”

“What? I’m supposed to think you’re going to look out for my safety?” Lucy admittedly doesn’t want to stay here tonight either, but no part of that involves any desire whatsoever for a longer sojourn in Garcia Flynn’s company. She’s almost genuinely worried about Iris, growing up with a dad like this, even if Iris seems outwardly normal. “Or – ”

Flynn rolls his eyes. “I just got rid of a dead body for you,” he points out – which, as a “you should trust me” incentive, is either horrible or brilliant, Lucy doesn’t know. “Or you can stay here, see if it happens again, and do it yourself. Your choice.”

“What? You don’t want to be paid first?”

Flynn’s mouth briefly twitches, as if acknowledging that he deserves that. Then he jerks his head. “Pack a bag. I’ll take you somewhere.”

Since Lucy waved goodbye to the last normal part of this evening a while ago, and she doesn’t have a better idea, she goes into her bedroom and packs an overnight bag, throwing in some changes of clothes and underwear, toiletries, money, and her passport. Not that she really thinks they’ll be obliged to flee the country, but she should probably be prepared for all contingencies. She swings the strap over her shoulder, puts on some sturdy walking shoes and a jacket, and grabs her backpack with her work things, books, and university ID. Then, managing not to look back, she follows Flynn out into the night.

It’s very late by now, past midnight, and the streets are almost silent, the few lamps that are on casting pools of ghostly glow. Empty crisp packets and cigarette butts whisk by, and Lucy has to take almost three steps for every one of Flynn’s. Keeping to his theme of being the most efficient but least comforting person to have around in a crisis, he has barely glanced back to see if she’s all right, except to make sure that she’s keeping up. A gentleman might have offered to carry one of her bags, which are heavy to haul for extended distances, and at last, Flynn makes a slightly irritated noise and scoops her satchel off her shoulder without asking. This is apparently intended to speed up her pace, rather than as a gesture of comfort or solidarity, and Lucy bites her tongue on a smart remark. She is just too tired and stressed out to deal with his nonsense. Men, or at least this man, clearly are in fact from Mars.

After fifteen minutes, they reach the place that Flynn is staying at, and he shows her inside to his room. There are the hotel-standard two double beds, one of which he’s commandeered, and Lucy drops her things on the other. Tomorrow she will resume fighting with him, but she needs to sleep first. Then, however, she feels a pang of guilt at the idea. Amy is still incommunicado, could have dealt with her own attacker or worse, be thrown in some San Francisco dumpster right now, and Lucy wants to knock off to dreamland without a care in the world? No. She needs to keep working. She should keep calling people.

She ducks into the bathroom to evaluate the damage, winces and touches the ugly bruises on her neck, and washes her face with hot water for a long time. Then she digs out one of the mini bottles of lotion for her hands and smooths it on, figures grimly that tomorrow is Sunday anyway so it’s not like she has classes to worry about missing, and heads back out. “So,” she says. “How do I hire you?”

Flynn, who has been sitting on his bed and keeping an eye out the hotel window at the parking lot below, starts and turns around. “What?”

“You said I could hire you,” Lucy reminds him. She does not like him and cannot say that she expects ever to do so, but she can recognize that he possesses a useful (if deeply alarming) professional skill set that, obviously, she does not. If creeps are going to make a habit of trying to jump her, it would behoove her to retain an expert, and if nothing else, she needs him to look into Amy. She doesn’t even know where to start. “What do I do? Is there some contract we need to sign, interview process, what?”

Flynn appears to be chewing his cheek in the way he does when she says something inadvertently funny. Finally he says, “There generally isn’t a lot of paperwork with my clients. The office receives the request, handles the formalities, and assigns the appropriate procurator to the job, with as many details as they need to know. They take it from there.”

“Procurator?” Lucy can’t remember if he’s used that word before in regard to his apparently very flexible employment situation. “Is that what you are?”

Flynn shrugs. “Yes.”

Lucy eyes him. She has a lot more questions, not that she thinks he’d answer half of them, and it is plain to her that he is some sort of extremely extrajudicial international freelancer, for whom, as the saying goes, the pirates’ code is more of a guideline than actual rules. In Flynn’s case, even “guideline” might be too optimistic, and Lucy still can’t think how he raised a daughter as lovely and well-adjusted as Iris. Unless, of course, he didn’t, but that is definitely personal business that she doesn’t need to know about. “Okay,” she says. “So we do what? Call your office?”

Flynn shudders. “God, no.”

“Why not?”

“Long story.”

Lucy stares at him with both eyebrows raised, reminding him that he did just cart a dead body out of her house earlier, after making sure it was dead in the first place, and a bare minimum of information about this ridiculous situation might be expected as a result, especially if there’s any chance of her ending up in it again. Finally, since it’s the only thing she can think of to even start to get a handle on this, she says, “What are you doing in Auckland? Was it just to visit your daughter? Does she even _know_ about all this?”

“Yes, she knows.” It doesn’t look to be a topic Flynn is interested in pursuing further. “Enough.”

“So what? How can this mess with my mom’s money be related to – whatever you said earlier, this conspiracy about shady corporations funding hits on wealthy Chinese businessmen?” Lucy can’t remember all of what he said, since it sounded insane, but she seems to remember that part. “Why do you even _work_ with people who do that?” She catches herself. “Right. Stupid question. Why not?”

Flynn looks to be considering how much to let on. Then he says, “Wait. I didn’t say specifically that Mr. Yang was – ”

“I saw it on my phone earlier.” Lucy doesn’t know exactly what this means, but it can’t be anything good. “He was some major oligarch and tech mogul, found dead in his Hong Kong apartment yesterday. Did your friends have anything to do with that?”

“No, they didn’t kill him. Someone else did. That’s what I’m trying to find out, and I think your mother’s money was used as part of the funding.” Flynn blows out a breath. “Whoever has been tailing you _and_ Iris is likely reporting to the same person. It looks connected.”

“Someone’s following Iris?” Lucy is almost more upset about that idea that someone being after her. “You didn’t just take off and – ”

“Of course I didn’t just forget about my daughter being in danger.” Flynn’s voice is sharp, brittle as broken ice. “I’ve been keeping as close an eye on her as I can. Then someone happened to jump you while we were on the phone, so I responded to that.” He tips a sarcastic shrug. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t bother, of course?”

“Never mind.” They’re getting off track. “How do I hire you?”

“I don’t normally take independent cases,” Flynn says. “So I suppose it’s however you want. You can pay me when we’re finished.”

“Fine.” Lucy doesn’t want to haggle over nickels and dimes while Amy could be in danger. She supposes that entering into an ad hoc verbal agreement with no proof of either expected service or stated compensation, with someone whose profession is ethically extremely dicey, is probably not the smartest move, legally speaking, but she’s willing to do whatever it takes to get her sister back. “I want to hire you. Does that work?”

“Sure.” Flynn reaches up and shakes her hand, with that annoying half-smirk of his. “You’ve hired me. Congratulations.”

Lucy fights a momentary urge to smack him, just because he’s been utterly blasé about this all night and she really feels he should be taking it more seriously. Then again, maybe this is just an ordinary workday for him, not special enough to be remarked on, but still. “Is this funny to you?”

“Funny?” Flynn looks surprised. “No. It’s a mess, frankly. To make a long story short, the item that I retrieved on my last job went missing some point before it reached the buyer. It’s an item that is very dangerous to be unaccounted, and I’ve been ordered to find it at any price. Someone else is also looking for that item, seems to know who my past clients were, and may be killing them to boot, which argues a possible larger-scale infiltration of the organization and other disturbing questions. So no, your dead body wasn’t the most shocking thing I’d ever seen in my life. Sorry.”

Lucy glares at him. “You could at least understand that I don’t live in your world,” she says. “I don’t have your job. I am an ordinary person. My evenings don’t usually involve home breaking, assault, corpse disposal and hiding out in a hotel with some – ”

“Yes?” Flynn’s eyes glitter. “Some what?”

 _“You.”_ Lucy can’t even think of the right word for the Garcia Flynn Experience, other than that. She sits down on her bed, as he has turned to face her with too-pointed attention, legs casually spread and hands resting loosely on his knees. “You’re just… a lot.”

Flynn shrugs. “Right now,” he says, “it’s not a question of me understanding your world. It’s a question of you understanding mine, since that’s what you’ve gotten mixed up in, and you’d probably better learn the rules fast. You seem like a smart woman, Lucy. I’m sure you can handle that. I don’t have time to get you out of trouble if you can’t do it yourself.”

“Wow,” Lucy says. “Really must pride yourself on your customer service, huh?”

“I do, in fact. It involves getting people the things they want, not holding their hands and kissing their scraped knees.” Flynn glances over his shoulder again at something in the parking lot, then seems to decide it’s not the advent of more heavily armed hitmen, and turns back to her. “I understand, of course,” he adds, decidedly after the fact, “that you don’t know the same things. You’ve hired me, I’ll work as a bodyguard if necessary, but – ”

“Whatever. Just…” Lucy hesitates. “Please just see if you can find out what happened to Amy, all right?”

Flynn eyes her, thinks about saying something else that would doubtless be as comforting as a punch in the face, and then mercifully refrains. “I’ll try a few things. Go to sleep.”

Lucy doesn’t think sleep will be anywhere near, even though she’s exhausted, because every time she closes her eyes, she sees the man leaping at her again, feels the weight of the stick cracking over his head, and even hiding under the covers does not seem safe enough. She dozes uncomfortably, on and off, as the glow of Flynn’s laptop screen is the only light in the room and whenever she wakes, she sees him still sitting at the desk, typing and frowning. Oh God, what a mess. She’s still not sure it was a wise idea to continue any kind of voluntary association with this clearly unstable man, but he is literally all she has right now.

At last, Lucy drops under into real sleep, and when she wakes, squinting with morning light on her face, Flynn is gone. His things are still there, though, and she decides that if this is going to work at all, she will just have to get used to him randomly coming and going with little to no explanation. She shuffles into the bathroom, takes a long shower, gets dressed, and does her makeup, in an attempt to restore some normality. She’s hungry, but doesn’t know if she should go anywhere. Really, would it have killed him to at least leave a note?

Forty minutes later, the room door opens and Flynn returns, carrying a takeaway coffee and a pastry bag, which he lobs at her. This is not the most sensitive and thoughtful way that a man has ever brought Lucy breakfast, but she catches it and starts to eat. “What’s going on?”

“I made some calls.” Flynn wanders casually over to take up his observation post at the window again. “Your sister was seen arriving at SFO and being picked up by a car service. She didn’t check in at her hotel. She must have disappeared somewhere between there and the airport, it’s impossible to precisely reconstruct her movements. Oh, and Bill Caldwell, your mother’s lawyer? Suddenly had to take unspecified time off for ‘personal reasons’.”

“What?” Lucy stares at him. “What does that mean? He’s – he’s not dead too, is he? You can’t mean that he somehow helped kidnap Amy?”

“Nothing’s off the table at this point,” Flynn says, with his usual inability to present the truth as anything except blunt-force trauma. “I don’t think he did, though. He knows too much about the money and he already told you about it. Most likely someone got to him and presented him with a choice of disappearing temporarily or permanently, and he wisely chose the former. I suppose they weren’t counting on honesty from a lawyer.”

Lucy wants to say something in defense of lawyers, even if that is beside the point. This seems to confirm, unfortunately, that Flynn wasn’t wrong, that there is something about Carol Preston’s missing millions that is far from aboveboard, and whoever is responsible for it is taking drastic steps to keep its existence and distribution a secret. And now Amy has unwittingly walked into the middle of that mess and could be literally anywhere as a result. Are these people just ruthlessly eliminating witnesses or would-be investigators, no matter who? God, Amy’s not dead, she’s not. She can’t be.

“What else?” Lucy manages, when Flynn doesn’t go on. “Do you have any idea where they took her? Or even who _they_ are?”

“No and no. Yet.” Flynn shrugs. “One thing at a time, Lucy. I’m still waiting for my contact to call back with information about some former clients. And my new identity won’t get here until tomorrow, so you might as well enjoy your Sunday.”

“You really think that’s what I’d do in this situation? Amy is _missing._ If it was Iris, I’m sure you’d be kicking back and enjoying an espresso, instead of going complete Liam Neeson in _Taken?”_

For a moment, Flynn almost looks as if he’s going to smile, but of course, he doesn’t. “You have a point,” he agrees, only slightly sarcastically. “But there’s nothing you can do right now. If someone had kidnapped her for a ransom, because they thought you might have the eight million dollars and wanted you to hand them over in exchange for her safe return, they would have likely made contact with you by now. Since they haven’t – ”

“What, they just wanted to make her disappear? Unless that was why what’s-his-face was at my house last night?” Lucy feels the sharp claws of panic starting to crawl up her spine. If Flynn thinks he’s being comforting (she’s sure the notion of _comforting_ has never crossed his mind), he’s not. “Deliver a message, or – what?”

“He didn’t have a ransom note, I would have found it,” Flynn says impatiently. “And it wasn’t the man that I punched in the alley the other night. I think it might have been the one watching you and Iris earlier, if Iris’s description was accurate. My best guess is that he was intended to ensure that you didn’t interfere, but I can’t be sure.”

“If he was just supposed to make sure we didn’t do anything, why did he put on a ski mask and jump through my front window?” Lucy enquires, a little tartly. “That doesn’t exactly seem like a preventive, keep-your-distance kind of maneuver.”

“Except you’d just discovered that Amy was missing and were calling me,” Flynn points out. “When you called Amy repeatedly and she didn’t answer, whoever has her phone must have realized that you were about to put it together, and ordered him to take action.”

Lucy does a bit of a double take, as she’s still not used to how coolly and analytically he sees these things, even if it’s doubtless an asset in his job. She supposes he must be a genius in his own way, if one utterly without basic social tact or success ( _how_ was this man with a presumably sane woman long enough to have a daughter? It’s one of the mysteries of the universe). She doesn’t like the thought of some shadowy kidnapper watching Amy’s phone buzz, perhaps even taunting her with it, and then placing a call of their own to their operative embedded in Auckland, letting him know that orders had changed and he should go put on his bank-robbin’ balaclava and try to silence Lucy. _Is_ that what happened? Flynn seems to think so, and since he killed the guy, there’s no way to know.

After another awkward pause, Lucy tries to think if there’s any way this situation is getting back to normal any time soon, and doesn’t see one. “So tomorrow, when the work week starts, what am I supposed to do? There are still two weeks left in term, I can’t just pack up and leave. I don’t know how I could possibly teach my students properly, but – ”

“Call the department and tell them you had a family emergency,” Flynn interrupts. “It’s the truth, after all. And admirable as this commitment to professional responsibility is, I think you have bigger problems than your freshmen history seminar.”

“Are you really just this much of a dick?” Lucy still can’t tell if he’s genuinely unaware of how he sounds, or if common courtesy is not a useful skill for procurators and thus has withered on the vine. It might just be Flynn’s own winning personality. “It’s my job. It’s why I moved here. Obviously, my sister’s life is more important, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about it and my students and what might happen if I just disappear!”

“I said, call the department.” Flynn gets to his feet, apparently having had enough of bickering with her. “On that note, I’m going to go check in with Iris. Don’t get into any more trouble while I’m gone.”

It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t see the murderous look Lucy throws at his back as he leaves, if they’re going to have any kind of working relationship. It occurs to her that she has already apparently decided that she’s all in on this, that she’s going with Flynn and taking full part in whatever this will require, rather than just trying to carry on with a hollow charade of her ordinary life and hoping he comes back with Amy one day. Flynn might not be pleased about the idea, since she’s an untrained civilian and she could just slow him down, but if Lucy is in fact going to pay this man a presumably substantial amount of money, she thinks she reserves the right to supervise her investment.

The day goes slowly. She’s bored out of her mind, is tempted to just go to a downtown coffee shop and at least pretend to distract herself, but she is cognizant of Flynn’s warning not to get into more trouble, and she can’t focus on anything due to her worry about Amy. Lucy calls the department as instructed, tells them there’s a family emergency and she may be gone for a bit, and then paces back and forth, back and forth, feeling like a zoo animal in a too-small cage, until Flynn finally deigns to reappear in late afternoon. He’s brought more food, at least, and she practically jumps down his throat. “Well?”

“Gareth did call me back,” Flynn says, not bothering to explain who this actually is. “I’m increasingly sure that whoever snatched your sister and whoever is after the briefcase are the same people, which makes our job somewhat easier.”

“Briefcase?” Lucy is confused. “What briefcase?”

“What I’m looking for. Never mind.”

“So are we going somewhere?”

“Yes,” Flynn says. “Tangier, Morocco. It was the site of a job I did in 2015, and apparently, it wasn’t about who I was getting the item for, it’s about who I was getting it from. It’s my best guess as to where whoever killed Mr. Yang is going to try next. That way, if we can catch up to them, we could find out more about who the hell they are, and what happened to your sister.”

“Oh.” Lucy experiences a sudden (rather too late) qualm of wondering if she really wants to go along on this. Tracking down shadowy international killers and engaging in high-stakes clandestine heists might be a fun thriller film to watch, but probably much less enjoyable to live, and she possibly still could stay behind. Then, however, she pushes the thought aside. There’s no guarantee that she’s safe here, she’d feel like a coward, she frankly doesn’t trust Flynn running around by himself, and she wants some goddamn answers about what happened to Amy and this slow-motion car wreck of her old life, of everything she thought about her mother and her family. “When do we leave?”

Flynn looks briefly impressed that that’s her only question, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth in a way that makes Lucy unwillingly notice that she would not kick him out of bed for eating crackers. (Everything else, yes, but whatever.) “Tomorrow, if my new passport gets here in time.”

“You can afford two last-minute international plane – ?” Lucy cuts herself off. “Fine, I’m sure you can. But getting there from Auckland has to be a haul.”

“It is,” Flynn informs her. “Eighteen hours to Doha, and two and a half hours there. Then another eight to Madrid, another three-hour layover, and then a quick jump across Gibraltar to the Maghreb. Not the furthest I’ve ever gone in one trip, actually, but it has to be close.”

“So this really is your life?” Lucy cocks her head. “You just travel around the world and do illegal things for shady people?”

Flynn looks as if he might want to split hairs on that definition, but thinks better of it. “More or less.”

“Is Iris going to be all right?”

He glances away, clearly uncomfortable. At last he says, “I think she’s safer away from me right now. I told her I had to leave again, and if I can draw off whoever’s taken an interest in us – and find the fucking briefcase – it should be all right. Hopefully.”

He doesn’t sound terribly certain, and it’s clear he’s conflicted, but he also clearly doesn’t want to talk about. It is on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to blurt out whether Iris knows that he kills people, but that is definitely below the belt, and she needs to keep the man she’s asked to find her sister well-disposed to do that. It alarms her a little, how easily she’s already compartmentalizing. She might end up like Flynn by the time this is over too, and doesn’t know how she feels about that. He’s very competent, and apparently also quite rich, but at what cost? He barely seems like a human being.

They spend another awkward night and wake up early, getting dressed and leaving before the sun is up. Flynn is even more terse and brusque than usual, clearly conscious about moving them out of cover, and they make their way to the downtown Auckland shipping depot and wait until it opens. Then Flynn marches inside and returns with a FedEx package, which he steps into an unobtrusive spot to open. It contains an American passport, several papers, bills, a phone, pictures, and other assorted items to support the existence of a person named – as Lucy discovers when she picks up one of them – Matthew Richard Preston. At that, she can hear brakes screeching in her head, and whirls on him. “Excuse me, what?”

“I needed a new alias,” Flynn says, with that ever-present oblivion to her finding it weird that he’s already ordered up a fake identity with her last name. “And I thought if we were working together, it might streamline the process.”

“We weren’t working together when you got this.”

“Well, now we are. So what’s the problem?”

Lucy sighs deeply, decides that she does not want to know where this comes from and figures he wouldn’t tell her anyway, and eyes him up and down. “I’m pretty sure you can’t pull off being my random undiscovered brother. Given as it’s my actual sibling’s disappearance that’s causing us the problems. Everyone knows it’s only Amy and me.”

“No,” Flynn says. “But I _could_ pull off being your husband.”

“Excuse – ?” Lucy might think this was some kind of pass at her, if it wasn’t already excruciatingly clear that he has less than no awareness or ability to do that. “What, you think we should pretend to be married?”

“We’d attract less attention as an American couple vacationing in Morocco than as a procurator and a professor who can barely stand each other,” Flynn remarks, with his usual brutal logic. “And if it’s the next spot on our enemies’ list, they _will_ be looking.”

“Fine.” Lucy is judging her alter ego already for having gone on a date with this man, let alone married him, but if it’s going to get Amy back, there are worse things to suffer. She’s sure she’ll definitely think of them. (All right, strangling would be one.) Maybe he’s really good in bed and she was drunk. “Shouldn’t I have a ring, though?”

Flynn agrees that she should, and they purchase a ring of surprisingly decent quality, apparently for the sake of the cover, so it doesn’t turn her finger green and be a dead giveaway. Lucy can’t imagine that anyone is going to be looking _that_ closely, but Flynn seems to think that the details are important, and he knows what he’s doing, at least in this department. Once they’re outside the store, he turns to her. “Give me your hand.”

Lucy hesitates, then holds it out, and Flynn slides the ring onto her finger with a care that, frankly, she was not expecting from him. He checks that it fits, nods once in curt approval, and marches them out of the shopping center toward the airport bus. Well, Lucy thinks. Good to see that this is in no danger of being an actual romantic getaway, not that she thought it would be. That’s for the best. If they had met in other circumstances, she might in fact sleep with Flynn, because he’s tall and good-looking and dark-haired and admittedly her type, but marrying him? Definitely not. Hopefully this will just be a wacky story for Amy later.

They make it to the airport, purchase tickets, and check in, then board the first flight to Doha. This is clearly a sadist’s travel itinerary, at least in Lucy’s opinion, but Flynn seems used to it. She’s too aware of the ring, keeps fiddling with it and turning it with her thumb, until he gives her a look, and she stops. Maybe it’s not too late to run off the plane, go home, go to work tomorrow, and pretend this was all just an extended fever dream.

And yet, she doesn’t. They push back, take off, and slip into the endless, formless interval of a long-haul flight. Lucy makes it through the first eight-odd hours by reading and listening to music, but by then, it’s almost eleven PM Auckland time, and they still have another nine to go. She starts to doze off, and since there’s not really another place to do it than on Flynn’s shoulder, she is obliged to use it. If they’re going to be remotely convincing as a married couple, even he can’t brush her off like a cat knocking a houseplant off the window.

In fact, he doesn’t, which is a surprising but welcoming development. Lucy sleeps for a while, wakes up, discovers there are still three hours left, and experiences the strong conviction that they are never in fact getting off this godforsaken airplane. She dozes again, and then they start into the descent, Flynn nudges her awake, and forty minutes later, they’re on the ground in Qatar. Due to the time change, it’s not quite midnight here. Lucy is utterly disoriented, not sure if she’s wide awake or exhausted, and once they find the gate for their Madrid flight and settle down to wait, she curls back up on Flynn’s shoulder (she finds she likes him a whole lot more when he isn’t talking) and goes to sleep again.

That is ended all too soon by the need to board another airplane at one o’clock in the morning, leaving Lucy to conclude that if she ever crashes out of the academia gig, she is not going to take up being a procurator instead. The travel alone would do her in, even if the flagrantly illegal stuff was not heaped on top. Still. He’s probably gotten to see a lot of interesting places, and she’s jealous of that, at least.

“What’s the furthest place you’ve ever been?” she murmurs sleepily, once they’re in the air again and the glittering checkerboard of the Middle East is falling away below them. “Somewhere no one’s heard of?”

Flynn doesn’t answer, leading her to remember that his missions are probably subject to strict NDAs and he can’t talk about them even if he wanted to. Then he shifts, letting her have a better angle against his arm. “The Kerguelen Islands,” he says, half into her hair. “Otherwise known as the Desolation Islands. They’re part of the French Antarctic territory, in the South Indian Ocean, one of the most remote places on Earth. There’s a research station and scientific outpost there that I had to retrieve some data from. Took me two weeks to get there on a ship, then two weeks back. Jounced like crazy the whole time.”

“Mmm.” Lucy _definitely_ does not want to be a procurator. “Is it actually worth it? Whatever you do in this job? You have a daughter.”

“Yes.” Flynn’s chest goes tense underneath her cheek. “She’s why I did it.”

This doesn’t make sense to Lucy, given as a lot of this seems to involve long spells away from home and actions of, to say the least, dubious quality, but it clearly pays well, and maybe Flynn thought that was the most important thing. Lucy goes to sleep again soon after that, and wakes up with light coming through the plane window as they’re starting down into Madrid. By the time they land, it’s eight o’clock in the morning, they’ve already been in transit for close to twenty hours, and have another three hours here before they can finally get on the last plane to Tangier. It feels like anyone up to no good has probably had a chance to kill the entire city, if they wanted to. Why hasn’t anyone invented teleportation yet?

Nonetheless, Lucy is now decently awake, if horrendously jet-lagged, and Flynn considerately buys them breakfast, which seems like the least he can do. As they eat in the terminal, passengers hurrying by to all sides, announcements droning, and the morning sunlight dazzling on the airport steel and glass, there’s a moment where they catch each other’s eye, briefly smile, and then immediately glance down. This is not a glamorous holiday and should not be mistaken for one, and Lucy reminds herself strictly that she’s not going to enjoy any of this until they know something about Amy. Maybe this is just the side effect of long traveling, and besides, Flynn having a single moment of civility doesn’t mean he has suddenly become tolerable. He _is_ a good pillow, though. More of that, less talking, and they might just make it.

They finish up breakfast and head to the gate for their flight to Tangier, which is (mercifully) only a little over an hour. Lucy can barely summon the volition to get on one more plane, but it is the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak, and they get on board and find their seats. “What are we doing?” she asks. “When we get there?”

“I’m working on that.” Flynn does his seatbelt. “You should probably stay out of the way. Go find a beach or something.”

“What, go sunbathe while you run away from large explosions?”

“You don’t seem like you’re very good at the explosion part.” He shoots her a smarmy smile. “So let’s just agree to let me handle those, should they become necessary.”

“Right,” Lucy mumbles. “Forgot who I was dealing with.”

With that, one last time, they push back from the gate, head down the taxiway, and start into a takeoff roll. Lucy looks out the window as they climb, up and up and up into the puffy white clouds. It seems impossible that she’s on the other side of the world than where she was yesterday, that her sister’s gone and she’s personally hunting down the assholes responsible, that she is (even if obviously only in name) now married to a tall, dark, and snarky asshole of an entirely different nature, and she has no idea what lies ahead. If it’s another death, if it’s something worse, if whoever took Amy has no intention of ever giving her back, if it’s tied to the mystery of this briefcase that Flynn and his employers are apparently so hung up on – and what, exactly, this briefcase is that someone’s willing to kill for it or worse. But those are questions with no answers, and when Lucy looks out to the sky above and the sea below, all she sees is blue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Tangier, Morocco**

**1:15 PM GMT**

It’s just past the height of the day and the temperature is pushing ninety degrees Fahrenheit in the sun, though the wind whipping off the seafront means that it’s not unbearably hot. It is, however, dazzlingly bright, Lucy has to squint even through her sunglasses, and she stays close to Flynn’s back as they wend their way through the crowded, twisting streets. She has made sure to keep her bag very firmly clutched under her arm, but she can’t resist the urge to look around. Tangier has a rich, exotic, glamorous, and frankly seedy history: it was an International Zone in the 1920s, a Casablanca-esque playground for the wealthy, eccentric, and dissolute, and a noted safe haven and base of operations for international espionage and secret spy houses (maybe that’s why Flynn had a job here), especially during World War II and the Cold War. It used to be known as “Queer Tangier,” a city where any pleasure was available in the darkness of a smoky opium den, filled with extremely gay American and European writers and artists bombing out of their mind on drugs and escaping repressive 1950s lavender laws back home. Of course, there is a dark underside to the idea of Westerners arriving for sex tourism and living in squalid colonial luxury while the locals went without, but at least it means that this place has never been boring.

Nowadays, the city is being reinvented as an affordable Euro-adjacent tourist resort, and large sections have been covered in scaffolding and concrete-block construction projects. It has a crucial cargo and cruise ship port on the Mediterranean Sea, and the influx of people without sufficient civic infrastructure to support them has ringed the buildings of downtown in rather shabby urban districts. Tangier has always been a bit of a chic downmarket mess, like a prima donna with her makeup smeared after a long night, which is part of its charm. Palm trees wave in the wind, people of all backgrounds crowd the shady souks and the old market, and you can hear Arabic, French, English, Spanish, Berber, and any number of languages spoken within a few square blocks. It’s colorful and loud and totally overwhelming.

Lucy speeds up again, since Flynn, as usual, has managed to substantially outstrip her. He seems to know where he’s headed, and she’d rather not get separated from him in this beehive. She wriggles up next to his side. “Where are we going?”

“The Hotel Continental,” Flynn says. “On the waterfront. It’s where I stayed last time, and I need to find out a way to make contact with my source. If the same person who killed Mr. Yang has made it here, they’re also in danger.”

The idea of unknown murderers lurking somewhere in this endless crowd is not a comforting one, and Lucy tries not to look edgily over her shoulder, reminding herself that she is an American tourist here for a relaxing getaway with her presumably beloved husband, Matthew. Tangier is enough of a beautiful and romantic destination, with such a literally sexy history, that with another man, she would almost think he was purposefully bringing her here, after having suggested the fake-married business in the first place. Flynn, however, has barely looked at her since they got off the plane, and was very startled when she, trying timidly to get into the spirit of things, reached to take his hand. She yanked it back and didn’t try again.

They walk for several more minutes, sweat pouring down the back of Lucy’s neck; going from winter in New Zealand to summer in North Africa in the span of twenty-four (or slightly more) hours is definitely a kick in the pants. Then they emerge from the throng and turn toward the iconic Hotel Continental. It’s a large, square white building presiding magisterially above a vast terrace, its lower reaches built with huge palm trees, its windows arched, and its balconies done in elegant iron filigree. The sea sprawls out in front of it, and the Medina, the labyrinthine old market, behind. A fifteenth-century Portuguese wall wanders in and out, lines of washing are strung between low hovels, and square pottery minarets, covered in mosaic tiles, cast shadows in the glare.

Lucy is very hot and thirsty by now, and hopes that their itinerary involves some down time somewhere (or maybe Flynn is just going to lock her in a room and disappear for another several hours, which – fine, as long as she gets something cold to drink). They truck up the elaborately balustraded stairs, cross the grassy veranda to the front entrance, and step into the air-conditioned front foyer, which is a welcome and icy blast that makes Lucy gasp. Flynn strides up to the clerk, seems to mentally reel through which of evidently multiple languages he should use, and settles on English. “Double room, please.”

“Double room, sir?” The clerk blinks confusedly at Lucy, who is a) standing next to Flynn and b) wearing a wedding ring. “We do have a lovely single overlooking the sea?”

Flynn gets a look of brief consternation, then alarm, as it apparently only now dawns on him that a married couple would, of course, probably not come all the way to this place on a special trip just to sleep in separate beds. There’s a long pause. Then he smiles, which is probably not the most comforting expression. “Yes, the single, of course.”

He pays, the clerk hands over the keys, and they climb the stairs to the room in question, which does in fact possess a spectacular view over the sapphire seafront. It’s unbearably stuffy, at least until they get the balcony door open and a breeze blowing through, and Lucy can’t help eyeing the bed out of the corner of her eye. It’s a handsome queen-size draped in a patterned quilt, and given as Flynn takes up a lot of space, it’s certainly going to be… noticeable to share it with him. Maybe they should have chosen some other cover. Business partners would fly, right? Long-lost cousins? But no. He just _had_ to pick an alias with her last name, apparently. Is he subtle, or just clueless?

Seeing her looking at it, Flynn raises an eyebrow. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he informs her, as if her offended virtue might be the first thing on her mind (well, to be fair, she _was_ thinking about it). “Don’t fret.”

Lucy bites back some retort about how he’s the worst husband ever, even as a fake one, and she feels sorry for Iris’s mother. But that’s another too-personal blow, and maybe once in the distant past, he wasn’t quite so bad at this. Still, she thinks that some gentle (or not-so-gentle) prodding might be in order. “Wow. So why _did_ we come here, if anyone asks? To get divorced?”

Flynn stares at her, then barks a laugh. “I don’t think the murderer is going to be checking up on our sleeping arrangements, Lucy.”

“That’s not what I meant. You were the one who suggested we do this in the first place. If we’re supposed to be disguising our identity, if there’s some logistical reason for it or something that’s going to help us find my sister, then I want to do that. I know you’re used to working by yourself, I’m not going to get in your way, but for now, I’m here. Deal with it.”

Flynn eyes her for an even longer moment, does something with his tongue that is slightly distracting, and finally makes a sarcastic little flourish. “Yes, of course, my darling.”

“Forget it, you’re ruining it.” Lucy thinks that their cover story is clearly going to be that of a couple with a badly strained marriage, taking a lavish vacation in a last-ditch effort to make things up. “So now what? Is there somewhere we’re supposed to go?”

“The place I picked my drop up from last time is near Medina,” Flynn says. “We’ll go there this evening. I need to check out a few things beforehand. You can do whatever you want, I don’t care. Just don’t go wandering off too far by yourself.”

“Good to know,” Lucy says coolly. That “maybe we should at least remotely pretend to like each other” advice has clearly gone in one ear and directly out the other. Since he said Morocco, she did at least pack for warm weather, including her bathing suit, and if he’s going to be gone all afternoon getting into low-speed Vespa chases or whatever else a procurator does around here, she might as well catch some rays. “Excuse me.”

With that, she opens her suitcase, digs out her bikini, sarong, sandals, and other beach-appropriate items, steps into the bathroom, and changes. When she steps out, Flynn, who has been standing by the window and surveilling the car park in his accustomed posture, turns around, sees her, and briefly seems to forget whatever he was about to say. Lucy does happen to know that she looks good in a bathing suit, thank you, especially a two-piece, and she gives him a malicious little smile. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” Flynn turns away and gets his things, until she thinks she might have totally imagined any discomfiture at all. He shoulders on his rucksack as Lucy grabs her own bag and re-fills her water bottle, and they leave the room, lock up, and walk downstairs, out of the hotel and onto the hot asphalt. Lucy makes for the stairs that lead down to the beach, and Flynn says over his shoulder, “I’ll come get you in a few hours. Don’t go anywhere else.”

Lucy is tempted to snap off a sardonic salute, but refrains. He strides off down the drive, out of sight, and she climbs onto the sand, populated by other beachgoers and bathers, vendors and buskers, as well as a few people wandering between blankets and Barcaloungers and asking for money. She firmly dismisses the nearest of these, finds an unoccupied spot, and stakes it out. It’s very nice, especially without her deeply disappointing fake spouse, and almost tempting to relax, with the ice-blue waves crashing on the shore a dozen yards away and the air warm and enveloping as soup. Yet again, though, it feels cheap to do so with the constant remembrance that Amy is missing, in danger, maybe locked in a sweltering shipping container on the Tangier-Med docks, or shut in a windowless room. Not that there’s any guarantee that Amy herself is here. She was snatched in San Francisco, which is a very long way off, and she might well still be there. But if Flynn thinks there’s a connection… if they (whoever _they_ are) want to use Amy for leverage, would they move her out of the country, or just keep her squirreled down some undisclosed location in Marin County…

Lucy dozes on and off, periodically woken by the shrieks and splashes of swimmers in the waves, people running by in pursuit of errant beach balls, and young men with trays coming up and asking if she wants to buy an ice cream or cold drink. She doesn’t have any dirhams, but they are happy to accept euros, so she finally purchases a snow cone, because it looks good and to get them to stop pestering her, and sucks artificial and delicious blue-raspberry flavoring off her fingers as she looks out to sea. Maybe Flynn got murdered (though he seems too good at his job for that) and she has a free vacation. It’s not a bad thought.

At last, however, Lucy sighs and knows that she’s definitely in trouble if he did, and switches on her phone to check the time; she has kept it mostly off to avoid getting socked with international roaming charges, as Tangier is definitely not covered by anything on a New Zealand plan. It’s just past six, the sun slipping out of sight behind the mountains and deep purple shadows starting to stretch on the sand, when she catches sight of a man walking down the beach. He looks European, and to her surprise and disquiet, he makes for her. “Ma’am?”

As one can imagine, Lucy has had outside of enough of strange men turning up at unexpected hours, and if this one also pulls on a ski mask and jumps her, she’s really going to be pissed. She draws herself up into an instinctively defensive ball. “No thanks, not interested.”

“I’m not selling anything.” He comes to a halt a few feet away. His accent sounds Dutch. “You’ve been here for a while by yourself. I was wondering if everything was all right.”

Lucy wonders if she’s gotten so paranoid as to misinterpret any and all well-meant offers of help as nefarious sabotage attempts. Not that she really wants to be out here much longer, since a woman by herself in a large foreign city after dark would run the usual risks, and the beach probably acquires a slightly grimier clientele by night than it does by day. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m just – waiting for someone.”

“Do you need a phone or anything?”

“No, I’m just – ” Lucy gets to her feet, brushing the sand off. “Waiting,” she repeats again, rather weakly. “My – husband should be here soon.”

It’s hard to tell if the man is disappointed by this piece of information, or thinks she’s definitely in trouble and doesn’t feel like she can say so (which is not, after all, inaccurate). He opens his mouth to say something else, when Lucy catches sight of Flynn, with his usual knack for appearing in the wake of an unexpected visitor, striding down toward the beach. As he reaches them, his eyebrows fly up and he stares at the newcomer with a deeply unfriendly expression. “Excuse me? You are?”

“My name’s Pieter Van Houten, I’m just visiting.” To his credit, the young man does not seem inclined to scamper off and leave Lucy with this turd before he knows she’s actually supposed to be with him. “And you?”

“I’m her husband,” Flynn informs him, managing to both finally remember that fact and sound like the world’s biggest douche in doing so. “Clear out.”

Pieter turns to Lucy with an _oh-no-really?_ expression, and she nods, even as she experiences an overwhelming desire to strangle Flynn. There is an extremely awkward moment, and then Pieter, who was just trying to do a good deed and help out a lone woman on the beach, offers a stiff nod. He gives Flynn a deeply dubious look and walks off, and Flynn watches him go with an equally baleful expression, before whirling on Lucy. “What did he say? Was he trying to get information out of you? How long was he watching you?”

“Would you just – ” Lucy is almost wishing he got killed after all. “Turn it down five hundred degrees? In the real world, which I’m starting to think you have never been to, sometimes strangers aren’t all evil and out to get you and are just worried because I’ve been sitting here alone for hours! I hope you had a productive afternoon, at least!”

“More or less.” Flynn grabs her arm and seems inclined to frog-march her. “Let’s go.”

Lucy smacks his hand. “I can walk,” she snaps at him. “Get off.”

Flynn opens his mouth for what would be the world’s most ill-advised comment by a man ever (and considering men and ill-advised comments, that is an extremely high bar to clear), and then, at last, some very lonely shred of self-preservation finally kicks in. He nods and trails sullenly behind her back to the beach stairs, up to the parking lot, and inside to their room. “Where are we going now?” Lucy asks. “How should I dress?”

“For a night out on the town.” Flynn looks impatient. “How else?”

Lucy entertains the fond thought that in this maze of markets and ex-spy safe houses and whatever else, there has to be a cyanide capsule that she can ideally find and put in his drink. Then she grabs her bag and wonders if there’s anything she packed which was really night-out-worthy, before digging through it and making an executive decision. It is a little black dress of fairly daring neckline and sleek, sequined fabric, and when it is combined with smoky eyeshadow and a pair of nice heels, Lucy has actually made men walk directly into lampposts before. She doesn’t know if she should go for the full effect here – after all, Morocco _is_ nominally an Islamic country, even if much more liberal than some place like Abu Dhabi where you can get arrested for brushing up against someone in a bar, and Lucy doesn’t want to project the “easy foreign woman” stereotype or get into trouble with the local purity police. However, they would be the absolute least of her problems, the downtown districts of Tangier are filled with scantily clad tourists anyway, and she does kind of want to see if she can make Flynn walk into a lamppost. She changes into the dress, refreshes her makeup, and doesn’t have heels, so she puts on her strappy sandals instead. Then she pushes the bathroom door open and saunters out. “This do?”

Flynn, who has changed for the evening’s work into a rather tight black T-shirt and stylish jeans, turns around with some sort of snarky remark on his tongue, sees her, and experiences a deeply, _deeply_ satisfying full five seconds of cerebral disconnect. Finally he snaps his mouth shut and manages, “Where do you think we’re going, exactly? You look like a cocktail waitress in a Monaco casino. Not the good one.”

Lucy doesn’t even need to ask if he’s been inside a sleazy Monaco casino, probably running some kind of multimillion-dollar poker heist or stealing some important item from a high-rolling playboy (really, is his entire life an Ocean’s Eleven film?), but she’s so annoyed that his opinion on her dress is that she looks like a cheap barmaid that she decides he’s now _really_ in for it. She gives him an icy, red-lipped smile. “Matthew Preston think that too?”

Flynn looks once more confounded at the reminder. His eyes dart to her surreptitiously, as if he has no problem with cocktail-waitress-in-sleazy-Monaco-casino outfits, strictly speaking, and in fact might have to work hard not to be distracted by this one. Lucy wonders if it’s smart to throw him off his game, since it’s his skills and professionalism that she and Amy are both relying on, but since he’s displayed no apparent interest in her whatsoever, this was more of a fine-I’ll-take-this-seriously-if-you-won’t retaliation, rather than an actual attempt to seduce him. She briefly thinks she might have gone too far and she could still change. But they’re here now, and have probably wasted enough time, and fine.

They walk downstairs, not quite touching or holding hands but aware that they possibly should, and descend the hotel staircase to street level. The city is covered in a rich mantle of purple dusk, lights sparking on among the warrens and the sound of talk and laughter drifting from open windows. The scent of frying meat and rice drifts in the still-hot air, and as they make their way downtown, they pass open-air sidewalk cafes under low awnings, people sitting and drinking at bistro tables, and countless dim side lanes that vanish among the bricks and clay. Lucy keeps expecting Flynn to steer them down one of these, but he walks them to a small neighborhood restaurant on the boundary of the old city. It too is open to the air, with painted wooden tables and artfully mismatched chairs, and since the menu is printed only in Arabic and French, it’s clearly off the tourist beaten path. Lucy speaks French, in fact, so this isn’t a problem, and they are seated in a corner, a little votive candle flickering between them as the waiter arrives with a carafe of water and two glasses. Flynn says something to him in an undertone, which Lucy can’t catch, and the waiter nods and hurries off.

“So… what is this place?” Lucy asks, glancing down at the entrée listing. “Aside from a restaurant?”

“It is a restaurant,” Flynn says, as if he thought that was obvious. “Food’s actually very good.”

“Is it somewhere Matthew and Lucy Preston, American married couple, would actually be spotted?” Lucy feels that someone should attend to their cover, since he won’t. “Or is it only used as a front for whatever spy work gets run through here?”

“It’s a perfectly possible place for them to go, yes. It even got reviewed in _Lonely Planet_ once.” Flynn, she notices, is avoiding her other question. “I’d recommend the chicken tagine and couscous, with the house ras el hanout. And a Casablanca lager.”

Lucy honestly can’t tell if he’s making a genuine endorsement of something he thinks she’d enjoy, or informing her what to order as a code to the back room that they’re here. “As in I definitely need to eat that for other reasons, or just because it’s good?”

“It’s what I’m getting,” Flynn says, which is no help at all. The waiter has returned by then, so as promised, he orders it, and Lucy, with a deep internal sigh, follows suit. Once the waiter has gone, Flynn continues, “You should just do what I say and not ask questions. It would make this easier.”

 _“Excuse_ m – ?” On an intellectual level, Lucy recognizes that yes, this is his ballpark, and no, it probably wouldn’t be wise to cop an attitude and deliberately ignore anything he says, but she still can’t help but bristle. “You don’t actually _tell_ me anything! You just make vague comments and hold back as much information as you possibly can and don’t bother to explain anything to me and then get frustrated when I don’t know it! I’m _trying._ I want to help you, I want to find my sister, I want to do all of that. I wouldn’t have up and left my job and my entire life and the mess I’ve got going on if I didn’t. But if you keep treating me like I’m some annoying daycare charge you got saddled with, and you can barely wait for me to get out of your way, then you know what? Fine. I’ll fire you and do this myself.”

This is obviously a bluff, since she knows nothing about how to do it herself, but he could clearly stand a reminder that she is the one who is supposed to be paying him, and while he is not used to having his clients along on a job, he’s smart enough that he can damn well figure it out. There is a tense moment as they stare at each other across the little candle. Then Flynn backs down, if only slightly. “It would take too long to explain everything,” he says, which is apparently his version of an apology. “And it would be dangerous if you knew too much. I don’t presume you’re planning to start this job yourself, so you shouldn’t – ”

“No, because it sounds like a terrible job.” Lucy sips her water. “How long have you even done this?”

She doesn’t expect an answer, since he’s just made clear she gets only what he cannot possibly avoid withholding, but to her surprise, he glances up at her, then away. “Almost seven years.”

“And Iris just… is all right with that?”

“I don’t ask permission from my teenage daughter.” Flynn’s voice is terse. “And for your information, I did it – I do it – because it paid well and it had a flexible schedule. A few days or week of work a month, and the rest of the time, I could be home for her. It’s been – since my wife died, it’s been just the two of us.”

He clamps his mouth shut on that, as if he didn’t mean to say it. Lucy could needle him about how it’s no surprise there’s been no one else, if this is what he’s been like with everyone, but she’s not that cruel, and it makes her wonder if grief has deformed him, changed him, as it does to people. She knows about losing someone your world was built on, and never feeling the same after that. Maybe Flynn used to be different, and has never groped his way back to who that was, doesn’t even think it’s possible. There’s another pause. Then Lucy says, “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” Flynn looks away. “Iris was seven.”

Lucy knows about losing a mother, even if not so young. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “Iris is a great kid, though. You must have done something right.”

“I’m not sure I had anything to do with it.” Flynn blows out a jagged breath. “And she – she didn’t know about my job until a few days ago. She doesn’t know the details. Or what I do, exactly. I gave her the condensed version. The one where I came out looking good. It’s just… it’s difficult.”

Lucy can admit that it probably is. Their drinks arrive, tall, golden, icy lagers with three inches of dense foam on top, and she takes a sip. It’s none of her business, but this is the first moment of actual civility they have had, and she can’t deny that she wants to know. “So what, it’s been eleven years since you had any kind of relationship? Is that why you’re so – ”

“Out of practice?” Flynn seems to have guessed where she was going with that. “No, it’s – not the first. After Lorena died, we were living with my mother and there was – well. An old friend. For a while. It was… complicated.”

“Oh?” Lucy does also know about complicated relationships, but something about the way Flynn says it makes her wonder. “An old friend from where?”

Flynn’s eyes briefly dart to her, then away. After a long pause he says, “From the Croatian army. We fought together during the Homeland War.”

“Oh,” Lucy says again. That answers where he’s originally from, and it also makes sense that she is, in fact, the first woman he’s been with, in any sense of the word, since being widowed. She is not in the least surprised that he’s not straight, as there is no way that a man as sassy, dramatic, and petty as this one possibly could be. “Was his name Matthew, by any chance?”

Flynn looks genuinely alarmed that she might be a secret clairvoyant and hasn’t told him (she wishes). After a long pause he says, “Matej. Matej Radić. So… yes.”

“I see.” Lucy gets the sense that this might be the first time he’s mentioned Matej to anyone, at least in years, and is oddly touched. “I dated a woman in college,” she says. “Carine Leclerc, she was a journalism student from Montreal. She wanted to move to California to be with me, and I just…I… with my mom, it was difficult, I don’t know if that… would have been her thing or not. So we… it didn’t work out.”

Flynn considers this, as he takes another sip of his lager. “It seems there’s a lot you didn’t know about your mother.”

This is true, if not very comforting, and Lucy doesn’t want to show him any more of her vulnerable places if he’s just going to keep jackhammering at them. They were almost talking like real people there for a minute, but then their food arrives, and they both clam up. As the waiter sets down Flynn’s plate, he also passes him a folded scrap of paper, and Flynn takes it smoothly. He flips it open under the table and reads it, and then after another thirty seconds, gets to his feet. “Be right back.”

Lucy flicks an eye at him dubiously, as he gets to his feet and moves off between the crowded tables. Wherever he’s going, she doubts it’s to somewhere as mundane as the bathroom (unless there’s some kind of package in the ceiling tiles he has to pick up, who knows) and she tries the food, which is indeed very good. She’s taken a few forkfuls when a voice across the way hisses, “Excuse me. Hello, excuse me.”

Lucy looks up with a jolt, and to her surprise and considerable disquiet, realizes that Pieter Van Houten has also chosen this particular _Lonely Planet_ “hidden gem” for his evening out. Either it was coincidence, or he hung around the hotel and waited to see if they’d come out, and he is leaning over from a few tables away; he was sitting with his back turned to them, so neither Lucy or Flynn spotted him. He glances warily in the direction that Flynn went, and then hurries over to Lucy. “Hey. I saw you with him. Is everything all right?”

“I…” Lucy wonders if it’s that obvious that she looks like a kidnapping victim, though technically speaking, she’s not. “I’m fine, all right? I’m fine.”

Pieter eyes her with a worried expression that clearly means he thinks she’s being trafficked. He checks for Flynn again, then digs in his wallet and pulls out a business card. “I work at the Dutch embassy in Rabat,” he says. “I can put you in touch with the Americans if you need help. Is he holding your passport?”

“No, I’m…” Lucy struggles to think if there is any good way to explain this situation. “I promise, I’m here by my own choice.”

“Are you actually married to him?” Pieter continues to look skeptical. “I’m sorry, I just… something about this didn’t seem right to me, and I… wanted to be sure.”

Lucy has to admire that he’s taking a chance and sticking his neck out when most people would have sat by and done nothing, is not wrong to think that she and Flynn are the least convincing married couple imaginable, and is additionally not wrong that this is a giant clusterfuck of a situation with all kinds of non-explainable moving parts to it. “Yes,” Lucy says. “Yes, we’re actually married. We’ve just been having a hard time recently. Work’s been keeping us apart, you know. We’re trying to reconnect.”

“Uh-huh, okay.” Pieter still doesn’t seem like he’s totally buying it, but he nods, and insists that she take the card, which she does. “Keep that, all right? Just… in case.”

With that, as if deciding that he’d better not be here when Flynn gets back, just in case, he puts some bills on the table for his dinner and weaves his way out of the restaurant. Lucy glances at the card, then puts it in her pocket, wondering how many other fellow diners might be suspicious of what’s going on here. She’s half-expecting that Flynn has vanished for another five hours and is going to leave her to dine in solitude, but he reappears in ten minutes, sliding back into his chair with a put-out expression. “Well, I don’t know if that was remotely what I needed, but – ”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Lucy says soothingly, seeing an elderly lady also glancing in their direction. “Matthew, do we have to talk about work right now? We’re here to focus on us, remember? That’s what’s most important.”

With that – she doesn’t know what she’s doing, exactly, and feels like she’s definitely overselling it, but whatever. She grips Flynn’s hand where it lies on the table, leans across the little candle, and kisses him.

Flynn’s mouth is hard, grim, and, for several seconds, like kissing a seam of granite. He is too startled to react, which is perhaps her first genuine confirmation that he has in fact had no idea what he’s doing the whole time, had no awareness that posing as married might entail actually  _playing_ married, and is indeed just as much a disaster as it says on the tin. For all his short-tempered, sunny-disposition, brusquely competent exterior, it is apparent in two seconds that he is completely clueless what to do about this, and Lucy can sense that if she took control and pressed the matter, he might not entirely turn her down. But it’s unclear if that’s because he genuinely wants to or he’s just too short-circuited to react, and in any case, she doesn’t need to suck his face off in a restaurant. His hand floats uselessly by her head, not quite touching, not the way a man would actually kiss his wife in public, and yet for a hot, visceral instant, even knowing what a very stupid idea it is, Lucy wants to know what he would feel like inside her. Then since this has already gone on long enough for a public PDA, and hopefully any skeptical onlookers have now been convinced of their veracity, she pulls back, oddly breathless. “Remember?” she says, a little hoarsely. “How we’re here to work on our relationship?”

Flynn’s eyes are slightly glassy, mouth half open, looking as if he’s been cracked over the skull with a two-by-four. Very belatedly, he shuts it, and jerks his head in half a nod. “Our… relationship,” he repeats. “The one where we’re married. Right.”

“Good job.” Lucy is almost tempted to give him a treat – positive reinforcement and all that. She has no expectation of it actually sticking, but maybe’s that enough of a shock to keep him shut up for five minutes. She is about to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, doesn’t want to smear her lipstick, and leans back into her seat, aware of a certain wet ache between her legs. Oh, come on. Yes, it’s been a long time, and yes, she was thinking the other day that she might not be averse to a one-night stand, but _him?_ Yes, any other man with a modicum of romantic ability could tell that she’s not exactly repulsed by him, and with the combination of a glamorous beach city, a fake marriage, a sexy dress, a night out, and now that kiss, would probably be able to put two and two together and get laid. But Garcia Flynn has no game – less than zero, even – and Lucy doesn’t think she needs to leap into bed with an internationally wanted murderer, no matter how ruggedly handsome. She needs to be careful, before this backfires on her. Besides, she’s still deservedly angry at him.

“So?” she says, trying to steer them back onto safer ground. “Did you get what you needed, or not?”

“I…” Flynn picks up his glass of water and drains it. “Not quite,” he says, as if he’s thinking hard about it. “The person I used last time has changed couriers, apparently. Since I don’t want to find them only when or if they turn up dead, I need to do some more digging. May have to come back when the restaurant closes, but that would take a few hours.”

Lucy is about to ask if there’s something else they could be doing for that time, or if they should sit here and wait, but she still has half her dinner left, and it feels prudent to attend to that first. Besides, he’s already made it clear that he doesn’t appreciate her questions. They eat in awkward silence, and have something called _kaab el ghzal_ for dessert, a flaky pastry stuffed with sweet almond paste and dusted with powdered sugar. Then Flynn pays the bill, they get up, and stroll casually into the night.

As they walk along the street, starting to come alive with later-hours amusements, people beckoning toward beaded curtains or underground coffee houses that whiff faintly of hash, Flynn abruptly reaches out and takes Lucy’s arm, pulling her against his side. It’s not clear if he suddenly thinks they’re in danger (Lucy hopes not, but can’t resist a wary look around anyway) or if it’s finally percolated through his brain that a husband and wife might not walk three feet apart and never touch or look at each other. He is tall and strong and very solid, which is not doing much to help her unfortunate lady boner, and Lucy almost wonders if it might have been safer if he stayed oblivious. “Are we going back to the hotel?”

“No,” Flynn says, “we’ll wait a few hours, pretend you forget something from your purse, and then go back to the restaurant. Then we’ll – ”

Whatever he’s about to say, however, Lucy doesn’t find out. They step into a small square by one of the souks, which is already starting to fill with a nervous, chattering crowd, and a few Moroccan policemen are holding people back as a squad car with flashing lights is parked nearby. They are trying to clear the area, crime scene tape is stretched over the mouth of a narrow alley, and the plump, middle-aged American tourist nearby demands loudly, “Hey! You! Over there, do you speak English? What’s going on? We need to get back through to our cruise ship!”

“I am sorry, ma’am,” the policeman says. “You cannot go through here. You need to go around. This area is closed, would everyone please leave?”

“We need to GET TO OUR CRUISE SHIP!” Patty – she just looks like a Patty – shrieks, making Lucy cringe in the universal experience of Americans abroad trying to avoid being lumped in with the utterly obnoxious members of the species. “This is the way they told us to go, so you need to let us through!”

“Ma’am, I cannot do that, the area is closed. Please go around. A man is dead, the police are on their way.”

That startles Patty considerably. While she is turning to her husband, who is wearing a Washington Redskins shirt and is probably named Doug, and going on about how she’s not sure they should have taken an itinerary to Africa and what if it’s a Muslim terrorist attack, Flynn looks very startled and shoves post-haste over to the policeman. The poor man is probably expecting to be yelled at again, but Flynn asks him something in a low, urgent tone, and after a moment, gets some sort of response. It’s clear that he doesn’t like it at all, but he nods once in thanks, steps away, and takes Lucy by the elbow. “We need to get out of here.”

“What’s going on?” Lucy hurries to keep up with him; for once, she’s not inclined to smack his hand off. She’s a little unnerved. “Did you ask him what – who’s dead?”

“He said it was a Dutch national.” Flynn turns to look at her with one sharply cocked eyebrow. “Still had his wallet on him, ID was easy. It wasn’t a robbery. Pieter Van Houten.”

That hits Lucy in the face like a sledgehammer. The sickening realization breaks over her that they are in danger, and that Pieter was – he _had_ to be – killed because the murderer saw him with her. Had to be in range at either the beach or at the restaurant, saw Pieter talking to her and then giving her a card, concluded that he knew something about all this, approached him, and when he didn’t, or got suspicious and figured he was right all along that Lucy was fishy, iced him? Oh God. He was just trying to help her, now he’s dead, and the realization that whoever they’re looking for was only a few dozen yards away makes Lucy turn cold from head to heel. What if Flynn hadn’t turned up on the beach right when he did? What if –

“Oh my God,” Lucy manages. “He was – he was at the restaurant, while you were off doing whatever. He gave me his business card, he thought I was being trafficked. The killer must have seen him do that. They’re here. You’re right, they’re here.”

Flynn does not appear inclined to gloat in victory. He’s walking so fast that he’s practically dragging Lucy, and he has definitely got a gun in his bag, but he hasn’t even stopped to properly pull it. He steers her ruthlessly through a warren of side lanes, doubling back and criss-crossing as if to be sure to lose any pursuit, then approaches the Hotel Continental from the back way, through the Medina, before sneaking them in a rear service door and up several endless flights of concrete stairs to their room. Once they’ve made it, Flynn shuts the door, puts in the deadbolt, closes the curtains, and whirls on her. “He was back at the restaurant again? Why the hell didn’t you tell me that?”

“It didn’t seem…” Lucy trails off. She sits down on the bed, hugging herself, feeling crumpled and scared and small. “It didn’t seem important.”

“Didn’t seem important?” Flynn repeats incredulously. “He saw you on the beach alone and then he approached you again, he clearly thought something was off! He could have called someone, reported us! Didn’t you think of _that?”_

“So what?” Lucy flares. “I should have told you, so you could run out and kill him first? He was just trying to help! He was just trying to help me, and he got murdered for it!”

“Yes, well, that was his own fault,” Flynn growls. “Nobody asked for his interference, did they? And we don’t know what trouble this is going to cause us as a result!”

Lucy stares at him. She can’t believe that an hour ago, she was half-seriously contemplating sleeping with him, just because it feels like if you can’t have a reckless one-time fling with a hot mess of a man here, then where can you? She’s almost scared of him, wishes he would stop shouting, draws her knees up and feels too exposed in her short skirt. God, what is she playing at? This is a dangerous man with very little of what anyone else would recognize as a moral compass. She can’t play fun spy dress-up and race through an exotic beach city, pretending to do his job. Pieter Van Houten was right to suspect something wrong with this arrangement, and now he’s dead. It’s her fault. Lucy feels shaken and sick.

“So?” she finally forces out at last, her voice a thin whisper. “What does this mean?”

Flynn whirls on his heel. “I’m trying to figure that out. You’re probably right that the killer saw you two together and thought Van Houten might know something about the situation. Whether that’s in regard to your sister and your mother’s money, or about Khodzhayev’s briefcase, I don’t know. So yes, they are here, and my contact is probably the next on their list. Which means I need to find them, but they changed their damn courier on me. If they get killed, I practically feel like they deserve it.”

Lucy hugs her knees harder. She doesn’t know what to say or how to respond, is still frightened by the knowledge that the killer was close enough to see her, and Flynn was apparently fine just fucking off and leaving her completely exposed for five hours. Is this some kind of elaborate trap on his part, trying to draw them out? She doesn’t think so. He doesn’t seem that coordinated. “So, are you going to…” She doesn’t want him to stay here, but she also doesn’t want him to go. She feels very alone. “Just… go and…?”

“It would be stupid to run out right now,” Flynn says. “At night, in the dark, with the killer probably in active search of anyone else Van Houten talked to. But that means there’s a risk of more. I’ll have to go.”

Lucy can’t believe that only he would realize that a proposed course of action is totally idiotic, then decide to do it anyway – or no. Wait. No, she absolutely can. “You’re just going to  _offer_ yourself up to – ”

“Of course not.” Flynn gives her a somewhat scathing look, as he’s unzipping his bag, strapping on a shoulder holster, a regular holster, and pulling on a blazer with probably another two guns at least in the inner pockets. “I’m going after them, Lucy. That’s how it works. Lock the door once I’m gone and don’t answer it for anyone.”

And then – while she’s still sitting on the bed in shock, wanting to ask him how exactly he plans to stop someone whose face he has never seen, who has already murdered two people and is clearly fine with adding more, and everything else that could possibly be brought to bear against this utterly, unbelievably, _unimaginably_ stupid plan – he goes.

* * *

**Auckland, New Zealand**

**10:22 AM NZST**

Iris Flynn realizes that something is up almost the instant she checks her university email account that morning and finds a message announcing that due to an unexpected family emergency, Professor Lucy Preston is going to have to miss the last two weeks of The Nineteenth Century: Imperialism, Expansion, and Narrative. It will be substituted by a postgraduate from the history department instead, who they should submit their final papers to in the accustomed way, and the class times will remain the same. The university apologizes for this disruption, but everything should carry on about as normal.

Iris reads the email through, then sits back in her chair and stares narrowly at the screen. She of course cannot be completely certain, but she has a very strong feeling that this sudden unscheduled leave of absence from her history professor has a distinct correlation with the disappearance (again) of her father, and almost wants to call him up right now and demand to know what the hell he did. Dad has been extremely close-mouthed about whatever he’s been doing with Lucy, though it’s not like he’s a fount of information to start with, and now that Iris has a better clue of what that actually entails, she cannot dismiss the suspicion. She did say that she thought that one weirdo might have been spying on both of them, and now… well. She also doesn’t know what Dad was doing in Hong Kong, though there’s been a big news story the past couple days about a dead rich guy named Mr. Yang. Much as Iris would like to think that those two things are _not_ related, she’s no longer entirely sure.

After a moment, Iris pushes her computer chair back and gets to her feet. She already has half of her final paper written, it won’t matter who she has to submit it to, but she’s chewing it over as she grabs her jacket, bag, and headphones. She’s briefly tempted to see if Olivia is doing anything, if maybe they can grab a coffee together. They had a really fun time the other night, there was even a kind-of-makeout, and Iris is more or less confident that they might be _together_ together. She still can’t be sure, and hasn’t mustered the nerve to ask, but…

Iris locks her dorm door and heads downstairs, emerging from Whitaker into the pale, cool winter sunshine. She really just hopes that wherever he is and whatever they are doing, Dad isn’t being… well… Dad. There have been a few occasions, both in Philadelphia and in Chennai, where the mother of one of Iris’s friends or a neighborhood acquaintance or similar person, has attempted to set him up with someone. He’s a single father, he kind of looks like an action star (apparently they weren’t far off on that) and the right and proper way of the world is that surely he must want to date. But Dad can be as cranky as a bear in winter where all that is concerned, and Lucy is certainly not the only woman that Iris has had to profusely apologize to on her socially challenged father’s behalf. She doesn’t know if it’s about Mom somehow, if he feels that he can never have what he had with her, if he’s just kind of a jerk, or what. Either way, Iris is not oblivious to the fact that if the two of them, Dad and Lucy, _are_ off together, this has plenty of potential to be extremely mortifying for her.

She groans, fishes in her bag, and removes her phone, intending to text Olivia. It’s just then, however, that she spots someone watching her from nearby. This is obviously a recent and unwelcome development that Iris was hoping had stopped, but it’s not a creepy dude. In fact, it’s a woman. She has black hair and glasses, and as she moves closer, it looks as if she’s recently suffered some kind of major injury – been beaten up, or in a car crash, or something. Iris isn’t sure if she should have pretended not to notice her, if she should keep walking, or –

“Iris Flynn?” The woman reaches her, to Iris’s considerable alarm, and stops short. She speaks with an American accent, and holds out a hand, as if to make sure she doesn’t run. “My name is Jessica Logan. We need to talk.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Tangier, Morocco**

**11:01 PM GMT**

Lucy has been sitting on the bed, flicking through news channels in a variety of languages and trying not to think about the likelihood of being horribly murdered, for the last hour and a half, and she’s not sure if she should undress the rest of the way and go to bed, or if that would be the signal for some other creep to jump through the window and do the deed. Even though he would have to be Spider-man to climb all the way up here, she is not discounting it, and keeps looking up sharply at the sound of anyone passing in the hallway. There is music drifting up from the terrace below, the rest of the Hotel Continental guests milling around and drinking and enjoying their evening, and Lucy is tempted to go down and join them. She might be safer in numbers than she is up here by herself, and at least there will be witnesses if she is whacked. Besides, she’s sick of staring into space and fretting. Flynn isn’t back yet, shocking nobody. Yes, he told her to stay here and lock the door, but as well established, Flynn’s advice is frankly terrible, and so is he.

After another moment, Lucy swings her legs over the side of the bed, stands up, and slips her feet back into her sandals. She is still wearing her dress from dinner, and it’s a simple matter to freshen her makeup and hair. She slips the extra room key into her purse, glances around for anything that could serve as a weapon, just in case, and then decides if worse comes to worse, she will break a champagne glass. Surely nobody is going to actually leap at her from behind a drink tower, right? She does feel a little exposed going out by herself, especially given her consistent recent track record of being followed or jumped, but _whatever._

Lucy can hear the soulful strains of jazz from outside as she picks her way down the staircase and into the warm night. White fairy lights are strung up on the trees and the balcony, a breeze blows off the sea, and she notices at once that this is, as you might expect from a late-night event at a nice hotel in a vacation destination, a very couples-heavy affair. They amble past arm-in-arm, or sneak off behind the potted palms to make out, or sway in time to the downtempo mood music. Maybe she looks like a desperate housewife, bored and lonely while her husband is away on business, sneaking out in hopes of a hookup. Lucy supposes this could possibly work to her advantage, seeing who wants to talk to her as long as she’s careful, and walks over to the bar. “Rosé, please.”

The waiter pours her a glass, and Lucy takes it, glancing discreetly at the other guests and feeling herself unexpectedly warming to the role. A few grey-haired golden oldies, probably celebrating retirement or taking a dream vacation. Some younger couples, who seem to be in a group and are chattering away in Spanish. The giggly remnants of a boozed-up bachelorette party, who probably got kicked out of one of the restaurants in town and had to come back to the hotel. Here and there, there are other singletons, almost entirely guys. To judge by the prevalence of hair grease and flashy watches, Lucy guesses that most of them are also here in hopes of a hookup. Classy.

She sighs, supposing that she doesn’t have much room to judge, and tries to guess if anyone looks like a murderer. Not that it’s altogether likely that they’d blithely walk in the front entrance if they were, but that _would_ be a good way to avoid detection, whereas getting caught in the service corridor with a hatchet would definitely tip someone off. Aware that she’s playing with fire, but thinking of Amy in much worse danger and deeply pissed at Flynn, Lucy pushes off and sways toward the nearest lothario, affecting to be much tipsier than she is. “Hey,” she giggles. “Whas’ your name?”

In fact his name is Mario, he’s Italian, and she exaggeratedly asks him where Luigi is, because that’s what a drunk American woman out for a trashy good time probably would. He gets the expression of a man who has never heard _that_ one before, even if he seems to feel that she’s hot enough to overlook it, but upon spotting the wedding ring on her finger, he stalls. “Scusi, signora. Are you married?”

“Not _really._ ” Lucy throws her arm around his neck. “I mean, yes, I _am,_ but my husband is the world’s biggest _drag,_ oh my god. He’s literally. The actual.” She gathers herself as if for a spectacular drunken salvo, and pouts prettily. “Wooooooooorst. He just. Left me here. Why would he do that? We’re supposed to be working on our relationship, but _good luck with that,_ right? I’m so unhappy. So unhappy.” She sniffs, wondering if she’s laying it on a little thick, but at least thus far, Mario looks sympathetic. “Oh my God, I didn’t mean to, like. Melt down on you. You’re so nice.”

“I am sorry,” Mario agrees diplomatically. “Maybe you should divorce him, if you are so unhappy?”

“You know.” Lucy pushes herself upright and waggles a finger under his nose. “You are _so_ right. I absolutely should. D’you wanna _dance?_ Come on.”

She grabs his hands and starts pulling him toward the other swaying couples, but at this, Mario can be seen deciding that flattering as it might to have a pretty, apparently very willing woman fall into your lap, there are definitely too many red flags going up with this one. He puts a hand on her arm, trying to separate himself. “Ah – I did not get your name, Mrs. – ? But maybe you should just go up to bed?”

“Preston.” Lucy makes sure to say it loudly. If there is any strategic value to be had in flushing hidden assets out of cover and forcing them to make a move, well, here it already went.  “And I don’t wanna _sleep,_ I wanna _dance._ Come on, Mariooooo. Don’t you _like_ me?”

“You are very lovely, Mrs. Preston,” Mario says, which is nice of him. His mother is probably proud of his good manners. “But I don’t think this is right. Maybe you will sit down, and I fetch you a glass of water?”

Lucy is about to ditch on him, since she’s pretty sure he’s not the killer, when someone else moves out of the shadows by the palms. “Excuse me, hon,” he says. “You need a little help getting back to your room?”

Lucy turns her head, still affecting giggliness, to look at the newcomer. He resembles one half of the happy retired couples, dad-looking older white guy in a linen shirt and khakis. He nods at Mario, as if to say that he’s here now, they can transfer Lucy man-to-man, and offers her a hand. “Maybe we just head up, huh? Which one’s your room?”

“Oh, I can’t remember.” Lucy trills a laugh. “You’re nice. _So_ nice. Buh-bye, Marioooo. I wanna _see_ you again!”

Mario looks as if he thinks he’s probably dodged a bullet, backing out of there with relief, as Lucy allows the new guy to lead her away from the terrace and toward the hotel. They step inside, she feigns a trip, and he catches her arm, holding on firmly. “Right, well – Mrs. Preston, was it? If you have your room key, I’ll just – ”

“Mmm. Noooo.” Lucy turns toward him with a faux-scolding expression. “No, no.”

“How about we…” He is moving them toward a back corridor by the elevator; it’s late enough that guests are either in bed, or out until dawn. “Just step up, and…”

Lucy is keeping a very sharp eye on him, and as they step around the corner and out of sight of the front desk, out of sight from anyone, she prepares herself. He is still holding her arm with one hand, but the other has drifted casually to the pocket of his chinos, and it’s just deliberate enough to make her sure that he’s not reaching for a handkerchief or a breath mint. Then as he whirls on her, Lucy drops the drunk act altogether, grabs his arm and wrenches it over his head, and slams her knee up, trying to hit something important.

The man, who thought she was a ludicrously easy target, is completely startled. Whatever is in his hand goes flying – it looks like a syringe – and Lucy misses her first shot at his balls, but manages to hit him glancingly in the nose, hard enough to knock his glasses off. He grabs at her, she remembers some vestige of a long-ago self-defense class and jabs her thumb ferociously into the inside of his elbow, bends his arm, and ducks out and under, pinning it behind his back. She now has him in a makeshift hammerlock, but he’s still larger and stronger than she is, and violently yanks free, sending her tumbling to the ground. She scrambles around on all fours as he tries to pin her against the wall, then takes a deep breath and lets out a nice, proper scream.

There’s an alarmed banging from the front desk, and that means that (Not) Nice Older White Guy has to make a break for it, before he’s caught. He lunges to grab the dropped syringe, then sprints out of sight, just as the night concierge appears from around the other corner. He kneels next to Lucy, apologizing profusely, and offering to call the gendarmerie. He is very sorry, he has no idea how that happened, if she –

Lucy has just allowed the concierge to assist her to the front desk, feeling less shaken than you’d imagine given as physical assaults have become a daily feature of her life, and at least she was able to plan for that one, when the front door rips open and Flynn comes swirling in. It’s unclear if he caught the perp, though it doesn’t look likely, and he sees her, stops short, and assumes an expression of total thunder. “That’s my wife,” he says. “I’ll take her now.”

Given as she was just retrieved from the custody of another dubious gentleman, the concierge looks squiggle-eyed, but Lucy nods. She is in less than no mood for Garcia Flynn’s bullshit, however, and when he also tries to take her arm, she yanks back. They march up to their room together in total, icy silence, her hair falling in her face and her dress torn, and when they’re inside, Flynn shuts the door with a snap and stares at her the entire time he puts in the bolt, as if to remind her what it looks like. Then he says, “What the _fuck_ were you thinking? I told you to stay here! With the door locked! Instead, you pull some idiotic solo – ”

“Oh, me? _Me?_ I pulled some idiotic solo – ?” Lucy would really, really like him to finish that sentence, so she can slap him. Hell, she might slap him anyway. “Just leave me here, a sitting duck with no protection, while you went out and did – I don’t know _what_ you did, perhaps you’d like to explain? Huh?”

“That’s beside the point,” Flynn says, teeth gritted. “I know what I’m doing. You’re a clueless civilian, probably _not_ a Krav Maga champion, running around by yourself late at night with – ”

“Seeing as I managed to get the first decent look at a suspect, I’m wondering what you were up to, exactly!” Lucy knows that what she just did was, technically speaking, very stupid, but she doesn’t care. The recklessness and rage is burning through her, making her feel as if she’s actually drunk, and she isn’t going to sit here and listen to this hypocrite. “Or should I have waited for him to come up here and attack me with no witnesses? I’m sure you’d have just known that I was in trouble and come swooping back in to save me, right?”

Flynn opens his mouth, enraged, and sputters out on whatever he was about to say. For her part, Lucy feels like cutting him absolutely no slack. “Seeing as I’ve already been attacked, or had an attempted attack, twice in the last week, any genius could have guessed that the culprit might try to do it again, and maybe he should stay here, rather than fucking off into the night. Oh no. He ran away. Again. But I’m sure your part went _really_ well.”

“Lucy – ” It’s all Flynn can get out, sounding rather strangled, as she stomps over in her bare feet and glares up at him. “Lucy, stop shouting at me.”

“No.” Lucy drives a finger into his chest, standing on her tiptoes to be sure he’s getting the best angle on her glare. “You _deserve_ it.”

Flynn gets a look as if to admit that he possibly does, but that is still not relevant to whether or not she should be shouting at him. He flails at her awkwardly, as if trying to get her to back down but aware that that would involve touching her, and he doesn’t know how to do that. Finally, he puts a ginger hand on her shoulder and moves her away from him by six inches. It looks like a giant, terrifying dog blindsided by the attack of a furious kitten, which almost makes Lucy snort, and she reminds herself that she’s not going to laugh and ruin the effect of a proper chewing-out. There is a crackling silence. Then she says, “Are you going to say anything else stupid, or can I keep going?”

“No,” Flynn says, almost meekly. “I’m not going to say anything.”

 _“Good_ plan.” Lucy feels as if this is the first step toward any scenario in which they get along. She inhales a few deep breaths, trying to remember if there is anything else that needs urgently shouting at him. And that is just from tonight, since if she reels through all the disasters in their less than a week of acquaintance, they’d be here until tomorrow morning. “Anyway, it worked, didn’t it? Now we at least have some idea of who we might be after. I don’t know if he’s the killer, or just a henchman, but – ”

“Lucy – ” Flynn rubs a frustrated hand over his face. “You had no idea what you were doing. You could have gotten killed. That’s not exactly what I’m going for, don’t you think?”

“I could also have gotten killed if I sat here doing what you told me to,” Lucy reminds him. “Or back in New Zealand. Or pretty much at any time since this insanity started. I thought you were the one who figured I was oblivious deadweight and you had to do all the work?”

“I never thought you were oblivious.” Flynn says it almost grudgingly, but his eyes flick down to hers, then away. “Or incompetent. You’re clearly smart, and brave. But not at this kind of work, or this kind of job. If you hadn’t fought him off – ”

“I beat the guy in my house.” Lucy folds her arms. “And now this one. It doesn’t look like I’m totally helpless, does it?”

“No,” Flynn allows. “But you still – ”

“How is it smart if you run off alone, and not if I do?”

That, once again, flummoxes him. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. Finally he says weakly, “I’m a professional.”

“Good for you.” Lucy wants to point out that his version of professionalism is very, very different from most people’s, and yes, she knows she is not a trained and hardened secret agent and shouldn’t go picking too many more scraps by herself, but she’s still not letting him off the hook. “So how _did_ your evening go?”

“It was a bust,” Flynn says at last, grimly. “I didn’t find anything. I was just coming back here when I saw someone running out the back. If I’d known it was the jackass I was looking for, I would have gone after him then. What did he look like?”

“Generic older white guy. Linen shirt, khakis, glasses. I didn’t get a name. He was trying to inject me with something, he had some kind of syringe. Probably to knock me out and take me somewhere terrible.” Lucy tries to speak dismissively, but at the last, her voice wobbles. As brave a face as she is putting on, this is far outside her comfort zone, doesn’t really engender outstanding confidence that you’re going to survive until the end of the year, is obviously terrifying, and she was _kind_ of hoping that the fake marriage would be good for more than active disaster. Nothing else, because even she cannot throw away her better judgment to this much of a degree as to sleep with him, but at least support. Communication. _Help._ Whatever Flynn is doing thus far, it feels like the exact opposite.

There is another awkward silence as Flynn chews over that descriptor, which does not feel like much to go on. “I’ll ask some questions,” he says. “You should go to bed.”

Since it’s pushing one AM, and Lucy’s sleep schedule has been seriously screwed up the last several days, she can’t disagree with this – indeed, it’s possibly the first normal suggestion that Flynn has put forward. She withdraws into the bathroom, strips off the dress, and realizes that it’s torn enough that she can’t wear it again. And while it’s something she picked up for a few bucks at Goodwill anyway, she’s liked it for a while, and it’s the one thing she can actually mourn. To her mortification, her eyes fill with tears, she sits down hard, and cries silently for a minute or so, wiping her face with toilet paper. Then she shrugs into her T-shirt and sleep pants, looks at herself in the mirror, and notices a few purpling bruises. Whether they’re from tonight or back in Auckland, she has no idea.

Lucy stares at her reflection for a while, dissociating, until she finally shakes her head, snaps back to herself, and walks out. Flynn is sitting on the bed, checking over his gun, but at the sight of her, he gets up. “All yours.”

Right, Lucy thinks dully. Insisted on sleeping on the floor, because of course he did. She wonders if she wants him there, because while she also doesn’t necessarily want him in the bed, it might be nice not to feel totally alone. But instead she nods and turns the covers back, crawling in with an _oof_ and suddenly feeling very old as her entire body seizes up. She lies there, marooned among the pillows, as Flynn stares down at her with an unreadable expression. Finally, unexpectedly, he says, “Do you want me to keep watch?”

Lucy glances up, startled. “What?”

“I just…” Flynn tugs at his collar, glancing away. “I – suppose I felt. Feel. A bit bad that you ended up…” He waves a hand feebly. “Just thought I’d… you know.”

Lucy mulls that over, since it’s the remotely closest thing to an apology he has uttered since this nonsense began. There is some considerable remaining appeal in the idea of making him suffer some more, though as ever, sleep-deprived Flynn might not be top of his breaking-heads game. She’s given up trying to remind him of the married thing, even here where nobody can see them, because that’s clearly doomed. At last, however, she says, “If you’re going to do that, it might be more helpful not to be on the floor.”

Flynn starts to say something, then (for once) thinks better of it. He strips off his belt and shoes and jeans, remaining clad in his T-shirt and boxers, and climbs on top of the covers next to her, positioning himself on his side with his gun close at hand on the side table. Evidently he has decided that any renewed attack is liable to come from the door, since any perp would have to scale three vertical stories to get in from the window, and Lucy hopes he’s right (if, you know, there has to be another of the damn things at all). If she rolled over and nestled against his back, she would, by position, be the big spoon, but since he is presently serving as a human guard wall, that designation feels a little misleading in this case. He reaches out and turns out the bedside lamp, so there’s only a faint glow from beneath the door, and the small green dot of the fire alarm. They lie there in comparative silence, too aware of the other’s presence (or perhaps that’s only Lucy). She can hear him breathing.

Flynn does not slacken his vigilance, though he lets his head down onto the pillow. Lucy’s bruises throb dully, her back and her head ache, and she keeps going over the thought of Pieter Van Houten, killed in an alleyway for the crime of talking to her, more than her own close shave earlier. She doesn’t want people to get hurt on her behalf. She never has.

Somehow, eventually, Lucy must drop off, because she wakes up early the next morning, rolled over and pressed into something very solid, an unfamiliar weight resting on her hip. She briefly panics, thinking that the fiends somehow managed to sneak her in and cart her off without her waking, throw her into a box or whatever, but as consciousness returns, she realizes that the very solid thing is Flynn’s chest. His arm has fallen over her, her nose is buried in his collarbone, and he is fast asleep, breathing in soft, grumbly snores that sound like a hibernating bear. Given how bear-like he can be the rest of the time, it is almost endearing, and Lucy bites her lip on an unwanted smile. It has been such a long time since she woke up with anyone that it’s a downright novel experience. He _is_ a good wall.

Lucy wonders if she should roll away and forestall any potentially awkward situation upon their waking, but admittedly, she doesn’t feel like giving this up just yet. He will wake up and return to his usual bad-tempered self soon enough, and right now, for half a minute, she feels almost peaceful. She has to pull her hand out from where it’s gotten stuck between them, and rests it lightly on Flynn’s side, close to where the T-shirt has ridden up a little, over the sharp line of his hip. He is warm and hard as living rock, like an old god stirring in the hills, and Lucy is aware that her throat is dry, that there is a flutter in her stomach. After a moment, she edges still closer, just a –

At that moment, whatever Old Faithful instincts that Flynn relies on are tripped, he becomes aware that someone is creeping on him in his sleep, and he jerks awake like a bomb going off. He grabs her and rolls her flat beneath him, pinning her down with an elbow in the shoulder, his weight heavily on top of her and their faces very close together. There is a long and hideous silence (so much for avoiding that awkwardness, eh, Preston?) Then he realizes that it is not a sneaking bad guy, but a considerably taken-aback Lucy, and rolls off her post-haste. Back to her, he grumbles, “What were you thinking? You shouldn’t startle me awake.”

“Good morning to you too.” Cheeks burning and heart pounding, Lucy tugs herself free and edges to the other side of the bed. She wonders if it’s even worth trying to point out that she wasn’t trying to startle him, and decides it isn’t. “I’ll keep that in mind in the future.”

Flynn utters an indiscriminate grunt, and seems to need several moments to gather himself. He does not ask if she’s all right, because why would he do that? She’s not hurt, just a little disconcerted, and runs both hands over her face, smoothing her tangled hair back. “So,” she says, as determinedly casual as possible. “What are we doing today?”

“We’ll have to check the docks.” Flynn sits up, still turned away from her, and gets to his feet with a rather deliberate precision. “Get dressed.”

With that, and no more explanation whatsoever, he vanishes into the bathroom and slams the door, as Lucy makes a rude gesture in its direction. Whatever brief fit of penitence and apology he had last night appears to have already run its course, and he’s back to being a warthog. Lucy hopes he won’t use all the hot water, since she wants a shower too, but he takes only a few crisply efficient minutes and will probably judge her if she doesn’t do the same. So she jumps in, washes as fast as she can, and jumps out, wondering what sort of clothing will be applicable for today’s excursion. She didn’t bring a lot of stuff, obviously. She cracks the door an inch and says, “Who are we pretending to be for this?”

Flynn, who was also getting dressed, whirls around with an aghast expression, as if to say that _Good God,_ woman, he is _indecent here._ If that was his aim, it backfires, since it gives Lucy an excellent view of the fact that he is presently shirtless. He obviously looks very good without it, and she cannot tear her eyes away from the view, as obnoxious as he is. For his part, he determinedly avoids her gaze, crab-walks sideways, and removes his usual tight black T-shirt from his bag, pulling it over his head. Then he says, “Just wear something nice, I’ll handle the rest.”

The idea of Flynn handling anything is practically laughable to Lucy at this point, but she decides to keep that observation to herself. Wrapped in her towel, she darts out, fetches a light, flowery sundress, and puts it on, doing her makeup and adding some bangled earrings and a necklace. Then, having checked that the coast is clear, she emerges. “Well?”

“We’ll head to Tangier-Med,” Flynn says. “I don’t think they would have brought your sister here, but last time, I had to smuggle my pickup out through the docks, and they could be looking for the container I used then. Or they could have stored something down there, there are plenty of possibilities. Anyway, I’m Ivan Radić, and you’re my girlfriend, Mila.”

Lucy wants to tell him that he does not make it easy for anyone to pretend to like him under any circumstances, but once again magnanimously forbears. Flynn puts on a flashy necklace chain and mirrored sunglasses, clips fake diamonds into both ears, and Lucy gets the distinct impression that Ivan Radić is a Serbian gangster. With that, picking up their things, since they won’t be coming back here, they head out.

It is already hot, and getting hotter, and Lucy hopes they won’t have to trawl around the docks in the full sun for too long. Flynn offers her his arm, which she takes, wondering if Mila is a hard-bitten crime wife proud of her extravagant lifestyle and coming along to help her other half on his illegal peregrinations. They reach the Tangier-Med docks, heaped with huge metal shipping containers that throw shimmering mirages on the cement, longshoremen shouting in a variety of languages as they move them up and down the slip to waiting cargo freighters, and Flynn strolls up to the nearest port official. In an accent much thicker than his usual one, he says, “I like to inspect my goods, please.”

The official looks a little taken aback, so Flynn casually contrives to hand him a thick rubbed-banded roll of dirhams when they shake hands, and things suddenly become open to them after that. Lucy doesn’t think she can manage a convincing Eastern European accent on short notice, so she just smiles winningly, clutching onto Flynn’s arm as they make their way down the quay. Then, when they’re out of sight from the bribed official, Flynn lets go of her. “Look that way,” he says in an undertone. “Container 4259-JA-13. I’ll be right back.”

Lucy raises both eyebrows. “How about we _both_ look at it?”

“No,” Flynn says. “You do it.”

As ever, that seems to be all the explanation she’s going to get, and Lucy supposes that she’ll have to really lean into this Mila persona if anyone challenges her right to be there. Resisting a mighty urge to slap her beloved upside the head, as usual, she snaps a sarcastic salute and turns down the towering maze of containers. A light dress and sandals are not really the clothes to be mucking around a dirty shipyard in. She has to skirt pools of some unidentifiable black goop, and the air reeks of fish, motor oil, diesel exhaust, and salt.

After a few minutes, Lucy reaches the container with the indicated number, although she has crap-all idea what Flynn expects her to do with it. She knocks on it, as if to hear the muffled shouts of a bound-and-gagged kidnap victim from inside, and is admittedly relieved when she doesn’t. The lock is open, and she tugs on it warily. The door doesn’t give at first, so she pulls harder. Then it scrapes and yaws open, there’s a crash of avalanching ice, and Pieter Van Houten’s frozen corpse, shrink-wrapped up like fresh-caught fish, comes tumbling out.

Lucy jumps backward with a completely unfeigned shriek, barking her shins painfully against a bollard, as there’s a ruckus from the end of the row and Flynn comes sprinting into sight like a maniac. He finds Lucy buried up to her knees in ice, a cling-filmed corpse, and, to say the least, a lot of confusion, as the port officials also come running and Flynn reams them out; it’s in several languages, so Lucy can only understand about half. Finally, Flynn reaches for her, the picture of solicitous concern. “Mila, darling. Mila, are you all right?”

At that, Lucy actually does slap him. His head turns with a satisfying crack, he looks quite surprised, and once he has sent the port officials off to look up _immediately_ who had access to this container last night, he turns on her. “What was that for?!”

“What was _that_ for?!” Lucy is practically hyperventilating. “Did you _know_ there was going to be a goddamn _dead body_ in there, and just sent me to get a good reaction?!”

Flynn rubs his cheek. “No,” he says. “Of course I didn’t know that. That’s the container I left my drop in last time, it’s a permanent storage location on the docks, so I knew it would still be there. But they apparently do know about its connection to me, and they left Pieter’s body there. Either to smuggle it out themselves, or in hope I would find it as a warning. So whoever is after me _is_ after you too. That’s good.”

“That’s _good?”_ Lucy honestly cannot believe him. “How is that good?”

“It means my instincts were right,” Flynn says, with grim satisfaction. “This is all connected. Whoever is killing people connected with us – Mr. Yang, Pieter – are almost certainly the same people who took your sister. Your mother’s money was used for this somehow, and they’re also after Khodzhayev’s briefcase. So. We _are_ on the right trail.”

Lucy is still not remotely inclined to see this as a positive, and she just wants to get away from the dead guy, a process complicated by the fact that a metric fuckton of ice has cascaded onto her legs and frozen them solid. Flynn grabs her by the waist and lifts her effortlessly free, and they make their way back up the docks, where the officials – clearly wanting no trouble with Ivan Radić and whoever he works for – have uncovered that an American man, name of Don Church, paid in cash to rent this unit last night. Sometime between seven and eleven PM. The description they give matches eerily well with Lucy’s hotel assailant.

At that, another chill goes through her. Jesus. The guy must have gotten Pieter’s body retrieved from the alley, made hasty arrangements to hide it, then gone straight to the Hotel Continental to try to apprehend her too. Would Lucy have also ended up here, a shrink-wrapped stiff on ice, if she hadn’t fought him off? The thought makes her want to vomit, even as Flynn is looking vindictively pleased at this hint of a lead. He threatens the officials a bit more, but they have no other information to give. Despite the heat, Lucy is shaking as they climb off the docks and back into the streets, and abruptly discovers that she needs to sit down. She does so on a shady bench, and can’t immediately stand up again.

Flynn, for once, does not make an unhelpful comment. He even goes to a sidewalk cart to buy her a cold soda, and Lucy presses the can to her face, ice-water droplets trickling down her cheek as she tries to collect herself. Finally, she manages, “Do you think this Don Church is the actual killer, or just the fixer?”

“Hard to say.” Flynn glances sidelong at her, almost diffidently, as if only now realizing that she’s had a rough few days. “He’s not working alone, that’s for sure, There has to be some kind of squad. He could be the hitman, but my gut says he’s not. Obviously a fake name, but there may be some way to trace it. Either way, though. I think I know where they’ll try next.”

“Oh?” Lucy shuts her eyes, turning the can to get more coldness against her cheek. Honestly, she really does just want to go home, and yet. That is now and officially very far away. “Where?”

“Budapest,” Flynn says. “Hungary. They’re going after Connor Mason.”

* * *

**Auckland, New Zealand**

**10:57 AM NZST**

To say the damn least, Iris is not sure how she has ended up in a campus café with Jessica Logan, who has (considerately?) bought her a drink and a sticky roll before finding a corner table where they are less likely to be overheard. Nobody is paying attention to them in the usual midmorning chatter, anyway, and Iris still has not made up her mind if this was a good idea. Jessica doesn’t _seem_ dangerous, but after what she’s learned in the last few days, anyone turning up from the blue and mentioning her father (as Jessica did when Iris pressed) can’t be good. Especially after Professor Preston’s unexplained “family emergency,” which Iris already clocked as very likely caused by dear old dad, and she is quite tense, ready to get up and run at any moment. “Fine,” she says. “What the hell is this about, exactly?”

“It’s… complicated.” Jessica looks at her wryly. “How much do you know about what your father does for a living?”

Iris wants to say that she knows enough, but honestly, she doesn’t, and she can feel herself wondering if she actually wants to know any more. There’s a pause as Jessica stirs a raw sugar into her latte. Then Iris says, “He’s something called a procurator. Apparently.”

“He… is, yes,” Jessica agrees. “Do you know what a procurator does?”

“Gets things.” Iris is fairly confident that this was the basic idea. “For people. That they can’t otherwise get themselves, for whatever reason. Or helps them.”

 _“Helps_ them?” Jessica looks considerably surprised. “Did he tell you that?”

“Not exactly.” Iris is suddenly even more unsure if she wants to know more. “But he told me about a few of his jobs – in Haiti and then on Pitcairn Island, it sounded like he – ”

Jessica thinks about that for a moment, then clearly decides to tread carefully. “Well,” she says. “I work for the same people as your dad. We were just together on an assignment in Bangladesh. He was charged with picking up the briefcase of one Dr. Boris Khodzhayev, an Uzbek-Russian theoretical physicist who is employed in secret high-level scientific facilities in Moscow. The transfer took place in Dr. Khodzhayev’s hometown of Samarkand, where he had gone allegedly for his daughter’s wedding. Your dad retrieved the briefcase and took it to Dhaka, in Bangladesh, where it was passed on to me. I was supposed to courier it to the person who had paid for its delivery. Except shortly after I got it in Dhaka, I was jumped, beaten up, and considerably wounded, and the briefcase went missing. The people we work for are very concerned about finding it, for several reasons.”

Iris struggles to take that in all at once. It is more information than she has ever had about Dad’s work life, and it, to state the obvious, sounds a little dodgy. “Dad was getting – what – from Russian scientists? Why?”

“Because he was paid to do it,” Jessica says. “And we don’t know what was in it, exactly. I got the impression it was something Dr. Khodzhayev didn’t want Vladimir Putin and his cronies to have, so he risked his neck to give it to a foreign third party.”

This, obviously, is not comforting. Everyone knows what the Russians do to traitors within their own country, to say nothing of their enemies, and it makes Iris glance nervously over her shoulder, in case a neo-KGB assassin is casually sipping a cappuccino nearby. “Are they – are these people after _Dad?”_ It might explain the guy who was watching her.

“I don’t think so.” Jessica seems to be weighing her words. “Because here’s the thing. I _know_ who attacked me in Dhaka and took the briefcase. I’ve kept quiet until now, hoping to see if he’d get in touch and sort it out, but he hasn’t. It was your dad.”

 _“Wh –_ ” That makes absolutely no sense to Iris, none whatsoever, and not only because she doesn’t want to think about her father being a shadowy, amoral criminal. “Why would he do – why would he do that? If he didn’t want you or the client to have it, why wouldn’t he just not give it to you in the first place?”

“Because that would be more dangerous.” Jessica taps her fingers on the table, as Iris stares in horror at her black eye, trying to imagine if her dad would actually be capable of dealing it out in cold blood. No, he’s not exactly the kind of cuddly neighborhood den father who bakes cookies and chaperons kids to Little League games, but he’s not a maniac. Right? “If he never turned in the briefcase at all, it would be obvious that he’d taken it. If he handed it off to me, made it look like he’d done his job, and then staged an assault later, nobody could pin it on him. He probably then took it and stashed it somewhere right away, and is trying to arrange a new buyer for it, or – honestly, I don’t know.” Jessica shrugs, rather bitterly. “I should have told them immediately. I don’t know why I didn’t. I was a little apprehensive about this job too, so I thought – well. Never mind. It’s done now.”

Iris is even more horrified. She tries to tell herself that if Dad went rogue and broke all the rules to steal the briefcase back from Jessica, there must have been a good reason, but she can’t convince herself of it. “So,” she stammers at last. “Wh-what do you _want?”_

“I thought I’d come here and see if you knew anything about it.” Jessica sips her latte composedly. “If he’d given you anything recently that you thought was one thing, but might be another. I didn’t think he’d be dumb enough to get you directly involved, but I did mention you on the rendezvous in Dhaka, and it might have given him ideas. We’ve worked together long enough that I thought there might be some justifiable reason, but if I don’t come up with anything here, I’m telling the bosses what I know.”

“And those bosses are who? Exactly?”

Jessica considers. Then she says, “Publicly, their parent company is now known as Academi. But there was an organizational break a while ago.”

“Academi?” Iris is sure that name is familiar, and not in a good way. “Wait, isn’t that the shady private-security company that made such a mess in Iraq, that renamed themselves for good-PR purposes? Used to be known as Blackwater?”

“They used to be known as Blackwater, yes,” Jessica says. “This branch of it, as I said, isn’t directly associated with them anymore. They’re in private acquisitions now, rather than private security, but there are still some pretty good contracts to be had from the Pentagon.”

“Jesus.” Iris pushes her sticky roll away. Her head is spinning. So Dad is actually – what? A black-ops, shadow-budget, ruthless killer and international larcenist? “Are you _sure_ it was him who jumped you and stole the briefcase in Dhaka? It could have been anyone.”

“Maybe,” Jessica says. “But yes. I’m sure it was him.”

“But then – how does – how does any of this make sense?”

Jessica shrugs. “Someone else must have figured out that he was responsible. Now they’ve sent people after him, looking for anyone he might have tried to fence it to. A lot of his old clients, anyone he’s done business for in the past, anyone he’s retrieved similar things for, they’re all targets. You heard about Mr. Yang, in Hong Kong? I’m betting he was killed because someone thought your dad tried to approach him with the briefcase. Now they’re going down the list of his old jobs. If they catch him, he’s in very real danger.”

“What, him _and_ my history professor?” Iris still can’t make any sense of this. “How can this possibly be related to her, she hasn’t – ”

“Your history professor?” Jessica blinks. “Who?”

“Lucy Preston. She’s just – I don’t think she can possibly – ”

Something passes over Jessica’s face too fast for Iris to read it. It looks like genuine surprise, concern, guilt, and stubborn resignation all at once. Then she smiles. “I don’t know what she would have to do with it, unfortunately. Anyway, I’ve been totally honest with you, that’s why I’m here. Do you know anywhere your dad might have stashed something, whether here or elsewhere?”

Iris wants to say that he came right here, there was no chance for him to have taken a briefcase and hidden it. But then she remembers that he said he flew in from home, and if he did steal something in Dhaka, he could easily have hidden it there before continuing onto Auckland with the appearance of innocence. Even Dad wouldn’t directly involve her with sensitive stolen contraband, as Jessica says. Right? _Right?_ Iris very much wants to think so, but if half of this is true, she has no idea who her father actually is or what he does. She asked him if he was a good guy, back at dinner, and he sort of said that he was. That sounds more like a hollow and pitiable lie than ever.

“What do you want from me?” she says croakily. “I don’t know anything about this.”

“I agree you probably don’t,” Jessica says. “But I’m also trying to find the briefcase, and I’m pretty sure that your dad is no longer on my side in doing it. I want to keep him out of extra trouble with NBB – that’s what we tend to call the head office – but that’s as far as my loyalty extends. So, if you can tell me something, I don’t have to involve them? They’re pretty scary people, to be honest.”

In some part of Iris that isn’t completely panicking – she is an eighteen-year-old university freshman, she is ludicrously unqualified for any of this – she almost has to admire the skill of this ploy, this manipulation, if that is in fact what it is. She’s been hit with all kinds of doubts about her father’s true nature and motives, so she’s obviously not going to want to call him and ask, and helping out Jessica has been framed as doing Dad himself (and Iris) a sympathetic favor, rather than crassly stabbing him in the back. She’s lying, right? She has to be lying. Iris doesn’t know why she would be, but she _has_ to be. Oh God. This is so bad.

“Do you have any proof?” Iris asks at last. _“Anything?”_

Jessica pauses, then takes out her phone. She opens the gallery and scrolls through to a picture, stamped with the time and date of her assault in Dhaka. It is a grainy and dark-colored photo, and it’s hard to make out many identifying features of the man in the frame, but at the same time, Iris does recognize him. “There,” Jessica says. “I managed to take that picture of my assailant while we were fighting for the briefcase. Know him?”

It is, in fact, Dad. Iris can tell, and Jessica can tell that she can tell. “You could have fiddled with this,” Iris says feebly. “Changed the time stamp.”

“You can check the original,” Jessica says. “It’s on my SIM card.”

“But why?” Iris repeats again, even though she knows there’s no satisfactory answer to be had in any field. “Why _didn’t_ you just tell these NBB freaks you work for?”

“Because,” Jessica says, “what I do know about Khodzhayev’s briefcase made me… unsure if it was the worst thing in the world, if it didn’t get where it was going. I know some other things about that as well, you’ll just have to take my word for it. I was willing to give your dad a few days to get in touch and explain if it was a necessary cover to stage a fight between us, a struggle for losing the briefcase – and besides, I was in the hospital, he worked me over pretty good. A lot more than was really to be expected for a fake fight. Nothing fatal, obviously, but he wasn’t pulling punches. But.” She shrugs. “Honestly, it looks like he _has_ gone lone wolf, possibly kidnapped your professor as a hostage, and I don’t know what he’s capable of, if he’s backed into a corner. Can you help me, and Lucy?”

Iris stares at the tabletop. She can hear her blood rushing in her ears, feels as if the world is crumbling out from beneath her, and has to briefly grab at the sides of her chair, just to make sure. Finally, she manages, “What do you want me to do?”

“Well.” Jessica finishes off her latte. “Do you have any ideas where he could have hidden something of this nature, or where he might be looking for a buyer?”

“I don’t know anything about his clients,” Iris says. “But he made a stopover at home, after leaving Dhaka and before he flew out here. Chennai. India. If he did have the briefcase, I – I would guess that was where he left it.”

“And that’s where he would keep his things, his hiding places, his work records?” Jessica considers this. “If I could get us a pair of plane tickets for tonight, or tomorrow morning, then we could head out and have a look.”

“Wait, you can’t – ” Iris has no idea why she expects this to be any kind of valid objection, but still. “I have two weeks of school left, I can’t just pick up and go home for some – ”

Jessica gives her a look that, while sympathetic, is not relenting. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t want to get you involved in this. I’ll do my best to look after you, I promise, but this isn’t negotiable, and it’s best for everyone that you don’t try to tell anyone what’s really going on. A smart girl like you, hard worker, I’m guessing you have most of your final assignments done already, don’t you? You can make arrangements.”

In fact, yes, Iris _does_ have most of her work done, but this is still not sufficient justification for just running off with this woman, with a fortnight left in the semester and really _trying_ not to fail out of school in her first year. But she has a strong feeling that she is not going to be able to weasel her way out of this, and that while Jessica has played with honey thus far, vinegar is by no means off the table. Besides, she does want to know what the hell Dad is doing, what all he has been lying to her about, and an unexpected, slow-burning rage has started to trickle through her like poison. “Okay,” she says. “Fine. I guess I’ll pack?”

Jessica agrees that this is the wisest course of action, pleased that Iris is amenable, and they get up, leave the café, and walk back to Whitaker Hall. They head up to her room, Iris pulls out her suitcase, and wonders what on earth you’re supposed to take on a trip like this. It’ll be hot back home, so mostly summer clothes, but that doesn’t rule out the possibility that they’ll be going somewhere else. She throws in some things distractedly, tosses her toiletries and makeup bag on top, and zips it shut, then stuffs her computer, notebook, and electronics into her backpack. She can finish most of her school assignments on the fly, or at least she hopes, though she’s aware that she does have bigger concerns right now. Is she being kidnapped? Is that what’s happening here? Should she try to phone security, or would that make it messy?

Iris pulls her backpack on, hefts her suitcase off the bed, and steps outside, where Jessica is waiting in the hall. They take a few steps toward the stairs – and then, Iris sees someone coming up them, _really_ wants to warn her that this is the worst timing imaginable, and yet, her tongue has gotten stuck to the roof of her mouth. Oh no.

“Iris?” Olivia, probably swinging by to see if she wanted to go to lunch, or study together, or – well, the other night _was_ nice, maybe something like that – stops short, blinking. “Iris, are you going somewhere? Who’s this?”

There’s a very long, very uncomfortable pause. Then Jessica sighs deeply, and turns to face Olivia. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But since you’ve seen us, I’m afraid there’s no choice. You’re going to have to come with us too.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Paris, France**

**12:30 PM CEST**

In this case to date, there have already been two murders – Mr. Yang and Pieter Van Houten – which is clearly distressing, especially with the clear likelihood of there being more. However, Lucy feels quite sure that the next murder will be of a man probably named Jean-Claude, and it will be committed by her, personally, in this very Orly airport terminal. This invidious Frenchman has just beaten her in the race for the last seat next to a power outlet, has ostentatiously plugged in his annoyingly chic laptop, and is sitting there with the air of a victorious Roman emperor, occasionally stealing smug looks at her as if to be sure that she is appreciating his mastery. He’s typing away on his stupid French emails (Lucy is obviously a broad-minded and well-traveled person, but feels all ancestral stereotypes and prejudices against the French activating within her on the instant) and he even has a stupid French mustache. Goddammit, Jean-Claude. Maybe he’ll go for a cigarette.

Thus foiled in her pursuit of ultimate power, Lucy has not been able to charge her dead phone or computer, and while this probably would not make much difference, it leaves her feeling ever more disconnected from anything approaching reality. They spent one more night in Tangier, in a _very_ budget hostel near Ibn Battouta Airport (she doesn’t want to know what she heard scuttling in the walls), then flew out this morning, as they are en route to Budapest and, presumably, preventing Connor Mason from being assassinated on stage at his tech conference. If these mysterious killers would be that flashy, but either way, the likelihood is that Mason could end up dead, and they are trying to forestall that. At least, Lucy thinks they are. She has given up on guessing what exactly Flynn is trying to do here.

Their layover in Orly is three and a half hours, they got off the plane twenty minutes ago, and Lucy is already running short of ideas on how she plans to spend that time. She feels too restless to sit in one of the powerless, uncomfortable chairs, she’s running on low sleep because of said hostel and its beds like bricks, and frankly, she really _does_ just want to kill Jean-Claude on the sly and be able to do something remotely normal. Can she ask Flynn to ambush him in _les toilettes_ and shove the corpse in a ceiling vent? What’s one more dead body, right? They’re becoming a worryingly routine occurrence in her life anyway.

For his part, Flynn went off to get lunch, and he is not back yet. Which is entirely understandable, since it’s busy midday and there is probably a line in the airport food court, but being left alone yet again is making Lucy antsy and irritated. Is Jean-Claude the hitman’s lookout? Then it would be justified to kill him first in the name of self-defense, right? Anybody that smug must be evil. God, if he looks at her one more time – that _is_ why he’s looking at her, he’s here to grab her and stick her with the syringe and –

Lucy’s increasingly paranoid inner monologue is finally broken by the return of her traveling companion. He is holding a pair of sandwiches and salads, one of which he offers to her, and Lucy takes it. They have eaten for a few minutes in their accustomed silence, when Flynn’s phone buzzes in his pocket ( _he,_ of course, has magically contrived to keep it charged). He takes it out, looks at it, and frowns. “One second.”

With that, he steps out of sight around the corner, as Lucy tries to find her happy place. This was probably a doomed endeavor anyway, and it falls comprehensively flat upon Flynn’s return with a very dark scowl. “What?” she says. “What’s going on now?”

“Gareth,” Flynn says, again with no explanation as to who this Gareth person is or what his importance is, though Lucy can guess that he is some shadowy procurator intermediary and consigliere. “Apparently there was an attempt to kill the client that I did the Tangier job for, last night. Some spec-tech engineer in Brussels, with connections to EU science programs. His home security system went off and he managed to escape and call the police. Gareth got wind of it and passed it on to me, warned me that NBB is probably going to put two and two together and get up my ass about it. _Fuck._ ”

“So they went to Tangier to see if there was anything on one end of that old job, then went to Brussels to attack the guy you got it for?” Lucy is barely surprised at this point, but still feels a sharp dismay. These people are taking no prisoners, literally. Scorched-earth or nothing. Anything or anyone that Flynn has had even a cursory acquaintance with in his extremely colorful work life appears to be a target, and it’s clear that they have access to information that even Flynn himself doesn’t. “Could the killer have gotten from Morocco to Belgium that fast, in one day? Or does that mean there are _more_ of them?”

“We already realized we were dealing with a syndicate,” Flynn says, which isn’t comforting. “There are obviously multiple operatives. But yes, technically, someone could have flown from Tangier to Brussels last night, and tried to complete the hit. Damn it. I want to look into this. We should stay here a little longer, go on to Budapest tomorrow or the next day.”

“Do you think they stayed?” Lucy says. “If they were thwarted – ”

“Then either they bailed out to avoid detection, or they’re hanging around to try again,” Flynn finishes. “These people don’t feel like they’re in the business of loose ends, and now one of their intended targets just raised the alarm and got the police involved. It might smoke some rats out of cover, and the tech conference that Connor Mason is scheduled to attend isn’t for another four days. They might be delayed here too, if they didn’t finish the job.”

Lucy is starting to wonder very much who “they” are, since it’s getting exhausting to go around in fear of a faceless and powerful enemy who kills anyone in their way as a matter of principle, but doesn’t ask. “Our checked bags are scheduled to go onto Budapest,” she points out. “You probably don’t want to do this without your gun.”

“True. But that flight hasn’t left yet. I’ll go tell the airline our plans have changed and see if they can pull our luggage. Stay where you are.”

With that, Flynn strides off, leaving Lucy and Jean-Claude to resume their stink-eye contest. She nibbles at her lunch, discovers that she’s lost her appetite, and waits tensely until Flynn returns, having persuaded (or terrified) the Transavia France people into tracking their bags down and having them ready for collection. Once they have them in hand, they have to clear immigration to leave the airport, which is briefly dicey, but Mr. and Mrs. Preston are not challenged on their bona fides. Then they head to the car hire desk, and Flynn rents a vehicle; Lucy can understand it, since she speaks French, and she might as well get a chance to practice _in situ._ They step out of the terminal and into a warm, cloudy afternoon, walk to the rental lot, and find their assigned car, a silver Peugeot that barely looks large enough to contain Flynn. He pushes the driver’s seat back as far as it will go, mumbles about worlds made for midgets, and throws their things in the boot. Lucy climbs wearily into the passenger seat, wondering what it says about her recent life that this is not much of a remarkable occurrence. “So what?” she says, buckling up. “Are we driving to Brussels?”

“We will if we have to, but Gareth said he’d try to get someone sent down to meet us.” Flynn adjusts his mirrors, slaps on his sunglasses, and starts the engine. “I’ve done a few jobs around here as well, they could be looking into those.”

Lucy looks at him sidelong. She has become intimately familiar with the fact that it is as hard to get information out of him as the proverbial blood from a turnip, and God forbid he ever actually look rattled, but she still has to wonder. “You have an incredibly powerful crime cartel to deal with, we don’t even know their name or anything aside from the fact that they have a generic white guy working for them, they’re killing people left and right, and they seem to be fixated on _you._ Particularly. Is this just not the slightest bit worrisome?”

“Of course it is,” Flynn snaps. “So what am I supposed to do, wring my hands?”

Lucy raises her eyes toward heaven, counts to ten, and wonders if she would solve this whole mess if she smothered this man with a pillow at whatever hotel they end up in tonight. There is probably _also_ something worrisome in how quick she has become to embrace murder as a potential solution, but all the pacifists of the world have never met Garcia Flynn. He’s like a walking advertisement for violence, whether committed upon others or himself. It’s strange that Lucy doesn’t feel more in danger with him than she does. From other people, yes, clearly, but not him. Just frustrated beyond belief.

They navigate the various ring roads and airport arterials and head for downtown Paris. Lucy quickly learns that it’s not the French drivers you need to look out for, so much as the French motorcyclists, who zoom up between cars in the lanes, cut in and out with only incidental signaling, and overtake slower-moving traffic with a zeal that appears to border on the actively suicidal. Flynn yells out his window at one of them ( _“regarde la feu, imb_ _é_ _cile!”)_ which earns him a defiant rev of the engine and puff of exhaust as his nemesis speeds off among the vehicular throngs. Lucy is not sure he should go making more enemies, since they have more than enough to be getting on with, and while it’s only ten miles into the city from the airport, the traffic is heavy, and they go at a crawl for most of it. They finally turn off into the fifteenth arrondissement, which borders the seventh arrondissement to the north, while across the Seine and to the east, the first, eleventh, and twentieth arrondissements sit side by side because fuck you, we’re French. Lucy has at least visited this particular city, though it was in college. It rained the whole time, they got overcharged at a lot of crowded bistros, and shuffled past the Mona Lisa with eight hundred other people. It was still nice, because it was Paris, but – especially given her present company – she is not in the least expecting some sort of storied romantic getaway this time either.

Flynn somehow finds a parking spot, wedges them into it, and they get out of the car. The headquarters of the European Space Agency are less than a mile up the street, which makes Lucy wonder if Flynn has chosen this location for particular staging purposes; after all, if their unknown killer is going for people with technology interests, they could be on the chopping block if Flynn has worked for them at all. Flynn and Lucy trudge up the sidewalk to a plain, low-rise, red-awninged building, the Hôtel Wallace, which looks decidedly like the economy option, and Lucy just hopes it doesn’t have anything living in its walls. They go inside, get their first taste of that great French customer service, and finally find themselves in a small, spare room, the majority of which is occupied by a quilted double bed and a steep roof that means Flynn will have to be careful about standing up too fast. He gives it an evil look, as if this will suddenly cause it to spring four feet higher, but is denied.

Lucy can feel the fatigue setting in, since her two nights in Tangier were anything but restful, and almost doesn’t mind if Flynn goes and pulls his customary vanishing act, as long as she gets a goddamn nap. She crawls onto the bed, heavy-eyed and muzzy-headed, as he bangs around, digs out his gun and loads it (does this man _ever_ sleep, or is he run on salt alone?) and gets onto his computer, types quickly, and swears a lot under his breath. That reminds Lucy that she should plug in her electronics, since the outlets are all hers and freed from the odious shadow of Jean-Claude, but she doesn’t have a European two-prong plug adaptor, which would have foiled her at the airport anyway. She also, for that matter, doesn’t have any money, since Flynn has been handling the finances and she’s been careful about using her debit card. She could go out and change some euros and drop by a neighborhood newsstand, but that takes ambition, as well as running the risk of exposure, and frankly, she is just too tired to deal with another attempted assassination right now. It takes it out of a girl, all right.

Lucy lies on the bed, dozing on and off, as Flynn continues to work. Finally he mutters again, slams the laptop shut, and stands up. Reaches for his phone, then looks at her. “If it’s three o’clock right now, it’s – what, one AM in Auckland?”

Lucy wants to know why he expects her to know that, since other than living in Auckland, she does not pay outstanding attention to its time differences. “Mmm,” she says. “Something like that. Why?”

“I was just going to call Iris, but if it’s late, I’d probably better text.” Flynn does this, rapping out a brief message to his daughter, as Lucy regards him blearily and tries to picture him as a loving and attentive father. Not that she thinks he’s a deadbeat, though she’s still questioning all of his life choices, but she just can’t quite see that side of him. It would be different with a child, and he clearly does love Iris very much, but perhaps understandably, Lucy is struggling to fathom what on earth made Iris’s mother decide that yes, this was the life partner for her. There had to have been something. Was it the stubble? Flynn hasn’t had a chance to shave yet, and there is an extremely attractive, roguish dark shadow on his jaw. Yes, it’s not like he’s a gargoyle to look at, but he’s just so – he’s just so _obnoxious._

Lucy groans, shuts her eyes again, and lies there like a lump as Flynn readies for his whirlwind tour of Paris. He puts on a jacket even though it’s warm, the better to hide your gun in, my dear, and looks at her. “Don’t get on the internet or use your phone,” he says. “I’ll be back in two hours.”

Since she can’t be bothered to tell him that her phone is dead, she has no belief whatsoever that he’ll be back in two hours, and if she gets killed, she’s blaming him, Lucy just sighs very deeply and decides that she’ll take her chances with even these terrifying people not having tracked her down here yet. She falls asleep as if she has in fact been murdered, and is startled awake what feels like five minutes later by the door opening. It’s early evening, the light cool and blue in the plain curtains, and she looks around groggily. “Wha? ‘Zat you?”

“Yes, it’s me.” Flynn looks briefly relieved that she has not been attacked, but that might just be her imagination. “Wake up, it’s five-thirty.”

“We going somewhere?” Lucy pushes herself upright, hair tumbled in her face, as she squints at him like a cross mole. She is running low on clean clothes, so unless there’s a coin laundry around here, she will just have to shock the fashionistas of Paris with her déclassé evening couture. “No more secret spy errands?”

“No, those are done,” Flynn says. “But Gareth says there’s someone coming down to meet us, so get dressed.”

Lucy thinks about telling him to go meet this person by his-damn-self, decides against it, and hauls herself off the bed with a painful groan. She feels like a swamp creature as she shuffles into the bathroom, tries to make herself look remotely like a human person on a night out in frigging Paris, and is not sure how far that is going to succeed. Maybe their contact will think she’s Flynn’s charity case. Who knows, maybe she is.

At that, a prickle of sharp irritation goes through Lucy, more than might be wise. She has been more use to herself than he has, outside the bare logistics of money, food, and transportation, and she is not in the mood to have anyone take pity on her on his behalf. She opens her makeup bag and does a decent smoky eye, de-frizzes and sleeks out her hair, and while there is not much to be done for her plain long-sleeved grey shirt and skinny jeans, she throws on a scarf and manages to make it look artfully bohemian. Makeover complete (you think they’ll hire her on _Project Runway?_ ) she opens the door and strolls out. “This work?”

Flynn, as it happens, is on the phone and paying no attention to her, thus ruining the dramatic reveal that Lucy was hoping for. He is pacing back and forth by the window, arguing with someone, and only finally hangs up and turns around. “Well, that is a – ”

Only then, belatedly, does he catch sight of Lucy, and while it doesn’t quite as visibly cause his brain to glitch as did the little black dress in Tangier, at least he does not follow it up with any comments about how she looks like a cheap cocktail waitress. In fact, he stares at her for a long moment, then shakes his head like a horse trying to chase off a bee. “Let’s go.”

“Is there any point asking who was on the phone?” Lucy enquires pointedly, since her fake wedding ring is still on and she feels like yanking the reins a little. “Or is that something else that I don’t get to know, up until the latest guy tries to jump me?”

Flynn grunts. “Margo. My handler at NBB. She was informing me that they’ve heard some… never mind. It’s not worth repeating.”

“Oh?” Lucy follows him out the door, down the stairs, and out onto the Rue Fondary. It’s a pleasant purple dusk, lights coming on across the city and granting it its famous nickname, and from here, it’s a fairly quick walk to the famous Champ de Mars, the long green park that sprawls before the Eiffel Tower and seems to be more or less where they are headed. Or somewhere else in the extremely trendy seventh arrondissement, which is museum and café and university land, and Lucy tugs self-consciously at her improvised wardrobe. “Actually not worth repeating, or you’re just being exasperating again?”

Flynn gives her a wary sidelong look. “Because,” he says, “Margo was passing on a certain rumor that came to the office’s attention, that I was the one who stole the briefcase in Dhaka. Seeing as they were already inclined to suspect me, she wanted me to pass on all documentation for my movements on that day, my taxi receipts, my outgoing flight, and so on, so they could cross-check. I told them I’d sent the damn report and I hadn’t lied on it, and they had previously accepted that I didn’t have anything to do with it. She wasn’t all that pleased. Especially since they’ve _also_ heard about the attempted hit in Brussels.”

“What?” Lucy is still not clear on half the details of Flynn’s embroilment, but that is strange. “The briefcase you lost that started this whole mess?”

“The briefcase _they_ lost,” Flynn corrects icily. “I passed it off to my courier as I was supposed to, so I’m not sure how they could have come up with the idea that I then stole it an hour later. That seems to be the story, though.”

“After everything that’s been targeted on you already, now this?” Lucy looks up at the sky in search of lightning bolts; if one hits him, she is getting out of the way and leaving Zeus to it. “Who possibly could have told them that?”

“No idea.” Flynn doesn’t break stride as they cross Square Garibaldi and pass the ESA headquarters, which he eyes in just casual enough of a way to make Lucy sure he was definitely scoping it out earlier. “I assume it could be any one of my enemies, at this point. But since Jessica didn’t – ”

“Jessica?” Lucy is surprised, as he hasn’t mentioned that name before. “Jessica who? Does she have something to do with this?”

Flynn looks furious with himself for that slip, as he plainly was not intending to get stuck into explaining more of it. “Jessica Logan,” he says at last, very grudgingly. “She was my courier in Bangladesh. Got beaten up, supposedly, by whoever stole the damn thing.”

“Jessica _Logan?”_ Lucy stops in her tracks. Of course, it could be another woman by that name, but given the increasing entanglements between Flynn’s dilemmas and her own, she is not so sure. “Jessica Logan from Texas?’

“I don’t know where she’s from.” Flynn eyes her, startled and suspicious. “Do _you_ know her?”

“I – don’t know for sure, I…” Lucy’s head whirls, trying to connect all this. “I… knew her husband, back in the States. Actually, we were friends, and then we slept together, and it was… messy. He thought Jessica was dead, she had been missing for a few years when we met. His name’s Wyatt, Wyatt Logan. If Jessica has this job, it could explain why she had a long absence, but why would he think she was dead? Do you know anything about her background, or how long she’s done this job, or… anything?”

“No.” Flynn is looking even more suspicious. “Procurators don’t have access to that information about each other. When did this happen?”

“A year, year and a half ago.” Lucy feels rather numb. “Anyway, after Wyatt and I had our thing, Jessica returned. It was a lot of drama. I don’t know for sure, but if something happened to her in that time, if she went out on a job and then something went extremely wrong, or someone else got to her, or she ended up owing a favor in dubious places… maybe she’s the mole in NBB? You keep saying how these people, whoever we’re chasing, have access to insider information. What if Jessica’s passing it to them?”

Flynn looks shaken, as well as even more furious with himself for not considering that possibility earlier. “Jesus,” he says. “It would work. Nobody would suspect her if she got beaten up, lost a valiant struggle for the briefcase, and she was the only other person as plugged into the operation as I was. If she could count on protection from whoever she’s really working for… she could get the client lists, find out who I had done jobs for, all in the name of looking for the briefcase too. If she’s the one giving our enemies their hit list – ”

He comes to a halt, yanks out his phone, and then stops, as if unsure whether he should pass this information onto NBB or not. If Margo is somehow also in on the con, it would not be wise to tell her that they’re onto her. Even if it’s not Margo, Flynn plainly does not trust his shady, shady employers as far as he can throw them, and it might set off all kinds of smoke signals somewhere in the Lovecraftian depths of this nightmare organization. Instead, Flynn says, “I need to call Gareth again, then. Later. See if I can find out where the hell Jessica might be now, and if she’s asked him for any favors too.”

“Do you trust Gareth?” Lucy asks, since now seems to be the time for questioning the allegiances of absolutely everyone. “And he’s… who, exactly?”

“He used to work for them too. Now he doesn’t. He’s our third-party contact, when we need things like new identities and don’t want to jump through NBB’s hoops for getting one. He was the one who made Matthew.” Flynn glances around as they reach the clustering of fashionable cafes, brasseries, and other neighborhood restaurants at the southeast end of the Champ de Mars. They turn toward one such establishment, lowlit and busy, with outdoor seating beneath a khaki awning, and Flynn speaks to the maître’d in fluent French, asking for a table for three. Lucy is briefly confused, before remembering that they’re expecting someone from Brussels. They are shown to one such, and sit down, offered the menu and the wine list, as the waiter asks if Monsieur and Madame would like to hear the house specials. Lucy gives Flynn a very pointed look, and he remembers not to correct him.

Once a bottle of wine has been ordered and the waiter has sped off to fetch it, Lucy feels it pertinent to resume the interrupted conversation. “Gareth could also be easily positioned to pass on information to hostile third parties, couldn’t he? If he’s used to doing favors for disgruntled procurators, or is one himself?”

“I’ve had that thought.” Flynn’s tone is grudging, but he is looking at her with a certain respect, as if it might just be possible that she can grasp the byzantine insanities of his world after all. “I don’t trust him, but I don’t trust anyone, and I need to get the information somewhere. Besides, he was the one who tipped me off about the mess in Brussels. He didn’t have to do that.”

“If you say so.” Lucy can’t resist a nervous glance at the other patrons. They are chattering away and enjoying their night, but she hopes Flynn won’t run off, again, like he did at the restaurant in Tangier. If Pieter got murdered for talking to her for a few minutes, anyone who approaches her here could also be a target. When their wine comes, she starts to reach for it, feeling the need for fortification, but Flynn knocks her hand away. “Hey! What was that for?”

“Just a minute.” Flynn pulls a small kit out of his pocket, tears off something resembling a pH-testing strip, and dips it in the glass. Whatever he sees must check out, because he nods. “Fine. You can drink that.”

“Were you – what?” Lucy supposes that no precaution is too much at this point, but he’s still starting to resemble the paranoid dictator of a third-world country who suspects that everything and everyone is out to kill him. “Checking if it was drugged?”

“It’s a possibility,” Flynn points out, now testing his own. “We don’t know who could have gotten access to the kitchens, and this _was_ where we were told to meet our contact, it wasn’t a place I picked. If they moved someone in ahead of time, it could turn into a trap.”

“God.” Lucy wonders how anyone can live this way. “Is it _always_ like this for you?”

“Not always this intense, no,” Flynn says. “But it’s not a job for people who make mistakes or take safety for granted. We’re not dealing with ordinary things or ordinary people, and on every assignment, there’s someone who wouldn’t be happy with what you’re doing. So I prefer not to take chances. Especially when, as you kindly pointed out, it’s already seeming to focus quite a bit on me.”

Lucy can’t think what to say to that, and Flynn must also be satisfied that his own wine is clean, so he takes a sip. Their appetizers have just arrived when someone else does as well: a slender, dimpled young man in a nice suit, who glances around, sees them, and makes his way over. “Mr. and Mrs. Preston?” he says, in Belgian-accented French. “I am Xavier Girault, I believe you were waiting for me?”

Flynn considers him, then indicates the third chair, which Xavier occupies gracefully. He is wearing cufflinks and a whiff of cologne, and as he glances at her, Lucy can tell that he is not averse to boho scarves and smoky eyes. All at once, feeling extremely petty, she smiles back at him. It is nice to have _someone_ noticing.

If Flynn takes note of this, it is hard to tell. Instead, he commences interrogating Xavier about the situation in Brussels, whether there has been a second attempt to finish off the target, and if there is any need for him to go up there in person, or it will only make it worse. Lucy can follow most of the conversation, although there are a few technical terms that elude her, but she settles for sitting and smiling blandly. At a lull in the exchanges, Xavier glances over at her. “Madame Preston, I hope we are not boring you too much?”

“Oh no. You’re not boring me at all.” Lucy smiles again and moves her hand alongside his on the table. “It’s very good of you to come all this way, Monsieur Girault.”

“You speak French very nicely,” he says admiringly. “How are you finding Paris?”

“It’s not my first visit, but my first in a while.” Lucy takes a sip of wine and maintains their gaze. “The scenery seems much nicer.”

Flynn harrumphs, ever so slightly. She glances at him, and discovers that there is a vein visible in his temple, which is an intriguing development. Nonetheless, he seems determined to ignore it until he has an aneurysm and dies – Jesus, this man is wound so tightly that he’s about to start spitting gears. Fine, then. Lucy edges closer to Xavier and pretends to discover a bit of fluff on his collar that needs picking off. “Did it take you long to get from Brussels?”

“Only an hour and a half on the train, not so bad. Will you be staying a few days?”

“I don’t think so, unfortunately.” Lucy stares lingeringly into Xavier’s eyes, as if to convey real regret. “But perhaps if this takes some time to look into, you might like to show me around Paris a bit more?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Flynn says curtly. “It doesn’t sound like there’s anything I can learn from going to Brussels that I haven’t gotten already, and it would just raise my profile even more. You, was the victim able to describe his attackers at all?”

Attention regretfully torn off Lucy, Xavier glances back. “Not much. He says they were white men in dark suits, looked corporate of some description. He originally mistook them for arriving business associates. It was only when they pulled out the guns that he realized they were not. He says they spoke French with American accents.”

“Don Church in Tangier was American,” Flynn says to Lucy. “Or at least was able to flawlessly sound like one, but given what’s going on with your sister, I’d say most likely is. So this syndicate is probably U.S.-based, in some way. Typical.”

Lucy raises both eyebrows at him, since NBB is also, so much as she can tell, an American entity. “Competing secret society?” she says, a bit sarcastically. “Didn’t like NBB stepping on their turf, or also wanted in on the whole thing?”

“Possibly.” She was being facetious, but Flynn appears to be taking it seriously. He frowns. “It has its share of enemies and rivals, obviously. Maybe if Jessica’s working for a competitor, and knew enough about the briefcase to make them decide to grab it…”

At that, he seems to recall that Xavier is still sitting there, he does not want to show too many of his cards just in case, and clears his throat.  “Yes, well. If you don’t have anything else useful to tell us, you can go.”

“Oh no,” Lucy says. “He came all this way. He should stay for dinner.”

“I – ah – ” Xavier glances shiftily at Flynn and gets to his feet. “It is very kind of you, Madame Preston, but I should be getting on my way. Better just in case, besides. A good night, a very good night to you, of course.”

With that, he gets up, Lucy gives him a promising smile, and Xavier actually blushes. Then he hurries off down the street, hopefully not to a lurking knifeman in the Place Joffre, and Lucy watches him go. Then she turns back to Flynn, who is concentrating a little too hard on his appetizers. “You know, Mr. Preston _would_ have possibly been jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” Flynn does not look up from his plate. “Jealousy is for men who think a woman belongs to them, is their property. I don’t.”

This is actually backwardly chivalrous in its way, even if it’s detrimental to Lucy’s currently not-very-honorably-spirited motives. She also does not feel inclined to let him off the hook, so she leans forward. “I’m happy to spend more time with Xavier, if you do want to go to Brussels and look into this competing American crime cartel.”

“Oh?” At that, Flynn does look up, eyes glittering. “You like cufflinks and cologne?”

“I like nice men.” Lucy takes another sip of her wine. “And if you have to ask, you aren’t.”

Unbelievably, that actually seems to miff him. He looks indignantly at her, then down at himself, as if to ask what about this (answer: all of it) is not a nice man. “You think Xavier’s nice?” he parries instead. “Slick Eurocrat who wants to ‘show you around the city?’ He works in government. Of course he’s good at telling people what they want to hear.”

“I’m just saying, maybe my _husband_ would care if someone was hitting on me in front of him, or vice versa.” Lucy isn’t even sure why she’s pushing him so hard on this, when they clearly have bigger issues than whether their cover is convincing for people who don’t give a damn whether they’re married, just if they can conveniently be murdered. “So – ”

“So what? You married an idiot, is that what you want?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy snaps. “Looks like I did, didn’t I?”

Flynn opens his mouth very wide, seems to decide that nothing good can come of it, and nods at the waiter as their entrees are set down. There is a crackling moment in which Lucy cannot decide if she should stab him with a salad fork, or well, not. Then he does that tongue thing of his. “You know we’re not actually married.”

“You were the one who suggested it as a cover,” Lucy fires back. “Clearly you should have suggested divorced exes. Or mortal enemies.”

He looks amused. “ _Do_ you want to divorce me? Should be easy. No lawyers.”

They lock eyes, silently jousting, and neither of them is the first to look away. Despite herself, Lucy can feel it to the back of her stomach, a low, wet ache between her legs and a profound need to visit her frustration on him physically, in one form or another. They eat dinner in a silence that feels like a single spark would go up like dynamite in a mine, until they finally finish and get up. As they are leaving, Lucy says, “By the way, I need money.”

“You don’t have it?” Flynn raises an eyebrow. “Besides, I’ve been paying for everything.”

“Yes, I’m aware. But if I withdraw any, especially since it’s my family’s money that’s been causing issues in the first place, people will definitely know where we are.”

“Judging by the constant attempts to kill us, they know where we are anyway, and you’ve been traveling under your real name.” Flynn glances over his shoulder briefly. “But all right, fine, whatever. Is €100 enough?”

Lucy does not want to be walking around with a lot of cash on her, for obvious reasons, and she doesn’t know if Flynn is expecting reimbursement for all work-related expenses and cash advances on whatever bill he is giving her at the end of this, but whatever. “Should be.”

Flynn shrugs, detours to a BNP Paribas ATM, and uses one of several debit cards to make the withdrawal. He hands her the notes, a mixture of €20s and €10s, and Lucy puts them quickly into her wallet. They’ve only walked another few blocks before Flynn stops abruptly. Low-voiced, he says, “I think someone might be following us.”

Lucy instinctively turns to look, but he drapes his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, as if they actually are an unsuspecting couple out for a nice evening. She desperately wants to hope that it’s just a neighborhood petty criminal who saw them at the ATM and knows they have money, but that is not a certainty. “If we did get mugged,” she says, also in an undertone, “would Matthew Preston just give them his wallet?”

“I’m not giving anyone my wallet,” Flynn says. “So the answer’s no.”

Lucy thinks that an actual American tourist would probably hand it over rather than risk more trouble, but she can see the sense in Flynn not letting go of his, which contains his various valuable odds and ends. They’re walking down a narrow lane lined with the back entrances of businesses, delivery vans and Vespas parked on the sidewalk, when Flynn suddenly grabs her around the waist and pulls her into an even smaller alley between a patisserie and a hair salon, both shuttered for the night. With the other hand, he draws his gun, looking tensely out at the street ahead. There doesn’t appear to be anyone there. But any shots will bring the Parisian police, on high alert after multiple terrorist attacks in the city, running pronto.

Lucy stays where she is, heart pounding for more reasons than the awareness of potential danger, since that is very nearly old hat. She determinedly ignores the feeling, and Flynn doesn’t let go of her, pulling her further along and into the shadow of some rubbish bins. Then he jerks at his head at her to stay down, and peers carefully over the lids, sighting down the dim alley. Still nothing.

After another few minutes, Flynn puts his gun back in his jacket, very warily. “Maybe I was mistaken,” he says, in a tone which says it isn’t likely, but he will admit to the possibility for completeness’ sake. “Either way, I don’t want to take the same route back to the hotel.”

With that, he reaches down and helps her up, hands lingering on her waist, then leads her to the main street in a more well-lit, well-trafficked direction. They loop back around toward the Champ de Mars, whereupon they get a lovely view of the illuminated Eiffel Tower, and the park is full of strolling couples, the rich dusk under the blossoming trees casting the romantic ambiance for which this city is known. Flynn, however, keeps trying to find reflective surfaces to see if someone is still on their tail without turning around, and Lucy is tempted to just glue him to one and leave him there. _How_ is he like this?

They enter the green, Flynn makes a few zig-zags, and steers them through several streetlamps, as if to draw any skulking stalkers out of the shadows. About halfway through this, he remembers that they would look more like everyone else if he was holding her hand, so he does so. Someone coming the other way seems to be glancing at them too long as they pass, and Flynn chuckles, turning to her. “Well, honey, what do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” Lucy says. “I _love_ it.”

With that, since she is utterly out of patience and it would not be an unexpected thing in this circumstance (maybe anyone looking for Flynn won’t believe that a woman in their right mind would possibly do it), she comes to a halt, grabs fistfuls of Flynn’s lapels, and tugs him down. Then, while he’s still looking like a man at the controls of a crashing airliner (i.e. total and unfettered panic about which lever to pull), Lucy stands on her tiptoes and kisses him.

Their other kiss for strategic purposes, back in Tangier, was as disappointing as Flynn generally is in all walks of life. This is – well, she doesn’t know what, but not that. He remains motionless for an instant, then one arm comes around her waist, the other hand cups her face, and he pulls her hard upward, straining her neck, as he gives as good as he gets for a solid fifteen seconds. It feels barely restrained, almost reckless, as if she caught him by surprise and he can’t hide behind the castle walls that he normally does, is reacting by instinct and not according to plan, and it makes Lucy dizzy. She clings to him harder, opening her mouth, as his stubble scrapes her chin and their lips slide wetly on each other, sharing breath, pressing deeper. His kiss is rough and sweet, and his hands are hungry. He lifts her effortlessly off her feet, her arms wrap around his neck, and they stumble backward against a tree, continuing to make out ferociously for another thirty seconds before Flynn’s brain remembers that this is a no good terrible very bad thing and should be terminated with extreme prejudice. He practically drops her, looking rather shell-shocked, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing hard. As if determined to concentrate anywhere and on anything except her, he says, “I think they’re gone.”

“Yeah.” Lucy needs a moment to regain her balance. “Looks like it.”

He takes her arm, she feels his fingers almost burn, and glances sidelong at him, wondering if there is any possible way he can actually be indifferent to her, because that sure as hell didn’t seem like it. He is still breathing unevenly, chest heaving as if he’s been running for his life, and he steals half a glance at her under his eyelashes, then whips his head away. She cannot make any sense of him at all. Her mouth is wet, her lips feel branded, and she’s having trouble getting her own wind back. Her knees are wobbling. Fuck.

For his part, Flynn seems to feel that they have spent enough time parading around and putting themselves on display in hopes of luring someone out of cover, and he recollects himself sufficiently to steer them out of the park and down the street. There is a supermarché that is still open, so Lucy darts in and buys a plug adaptor, while Flynn shifts from foot to foot and stares narrowly at passing shoppers the whole time. Then they head out, back toward the hotel, managing to do this more or less normally. It is an accomplishment.

Just as they reach the end of the Rue de la Croix Nivert and are about to turn down it to their humble (very humble, frankly) lodgings, Flynn jerks his head around and pushes Lucy into the alley wall, pulling his gun again, and thus scaring the absolute shit out of the hapless Parisian who has had the misfortune to walk too closely behind them while taking his dog out. The dog yips madly, Flynn glares at it, Lucy hauls on his arm, and it takes some apologetic (on Lucy’s part) and less so (on Flynn’s part) explaining to assure the guy that it’s fine and they’re not going to do anything and no, please do not call anyone of a law enforcement nature, he actually _is_ law enforcement, that’s why he has that gun, they are totally legit, pinky swear. It definitely tests Lucy’s conversational French skills in a way that she has never done before, but that is what this trip is about, apparently. Education.

At last, they get the dog-walker dilemma sorted out, he proceeds on his way (not without a dark look over his shoulder), and Flynn grumbles, stashing his gun back in his jacket. “Do you think he’s just posing as an ordinary citizen?” he says. “He could be reporting to someone, trying to look innocuous.”

“I think even you might be getting a little too paranoid,” Lucy informs him. She takes hold of his arm with both hands, pulling him toward her, and their faces end up quite close together as Flynn looks down at her, eyes hooded, as he licks his lips again (really, does he have to keep doing that?) He braces his other hand on the wall behind her head, and she shifts toward him, conscious that her need to do something of _some_ sort to him has not dimmed in the least. The kiss earlier has kicked it into overdrive, and maybe she can sleep on the roof. Or he can. Otherwise, it’s going to be a very long night indeed.

After another moment, Flynn moves back from her, though he does firmly take hold of her arm for the last few dozen yards to the hotel. He pushes through the door and escorts her inside, up the stairs, and to the door of their room, which he takes several moments about unlocking. As Lucy is once more about to step in, he stops her. “Not yet.”

With that, he flicks on the light and scouts the place out, sweeping the sock drawer for bugs and looking behind the shower curtain for any psychos, before he pronounces it safe to enter. Lucy rolls her eyes, even as she doesn’t blame him too much, but once the door is shut, the tension once more ratchets up to unbearable levels. She tries to distract herself by finally, _finally_ connecting her phone to the charger, and when it powers belatedly back to life, she notices that there’s a new WhatsApp voice message from…

Her heart skips a beat. She knows it can’t be good, but her fingers shake as she opens the chat and presses play. It’s a garbled ten seconds, she can’t tell if it was deliberately recorded or not, but she can hear Amy’s voice in the background, demanding something, and a man answering her. Then Amy hisses, “Lucy? Lucy! I’m in – ” and it cuts off, with a clatter as if the phone has been grabbed or fallen off a counter. Silence.

“Oh my god.” Cursing Jean-Claude even more, as if she was able to power up her phone earlier, she might have heard this closer to when Amy sent it, and thus been able to do something, Lucy replays it again, trying to listen for any clues in the background noise. “Flynn? Flynn! Listen to this. Can you track it, is there any way you can find out where it came from? Location-wise?”

He hurries over. The message was sent sometime in their nebulous transit period out of Tangier, so within the last twenty-four hours, which at least confirms that Amy is still alive and in enough shape to try to steal her phone back and get word to her sister about where she is. Lucy feels better about that, if nothing else. She’s noticed Flynn glancing at his own phone in an affected-casual way, and says, “Did Iris text you back yet?”

“Not yet,” Flynn says. “But it’s still only, what, six AM there? She’s probably not awake.”

“Probably.” Lucy thinks of their first conversation when they found out that Amy had been kidnapped, and her asking Flynn if he would go full _Taken_ mode if it was Iris. She obviously hopes that nothing _has_ happened, since she likes Iris very much and feels the protectiveness toward her that any good teacher does toward their students. It’s not as much a risk in New Zealand, thankfully, but when Lucy first got into a classroom in America, she realized that she would, in fact, use herself to bar the door if a school shooter came in, and there’s nothing else she could do and live with herself. They’re kids. They’ve come there to learn from you. You are in a position of trust and responsibility, even if you’re paid peanuts for it, and if, God forbid, something bad _does_ happen there, you take it first. It’s just something she’s learned, and she tries not to let her head run away with it. It _is_ early. Iris more than likely is asleep.

Flynn takes Lucy’s phone, plugs it into his laptop, and sits down at the desk, typing and muttering as he runs various reverse-search and tracking algorithms on the WhatsApp message. Lucy’s frustration, in any number of senses of the word, is still acute, but Amy is more important, and she doesn’t want to distract him. She watches him work, his sleeves rolled up and shirt unbuttoned at the neck, absentmindedly pushing back a dark flip of hair that falls over his forehead every so often, occasionally swearing in Croatian at the computer when it doesn’t do what he wants, and finally decides that this is in danger of becoming more painful than it’s worth. Why does he have to look like that, but act like _that?_ It’s just not fair.

Finally, Flynn makes a noise that sounds triumphant, and Lucy bounces off the bed, hurries over, and he shows her a complex readout of code that must make more sense to him than it does to her. “I can’t get it any more precise,” he says. “Unfortunately. But I can be fairly sure that the message triangulated off a cell tower in about a two-hundred-square mile radius in southeastern Europe. And given our original destination, there’s a good chance that we do in fact know where that is.”

“Budapest?” Lucy asks, with a jolt in her stomach. “You think they might have taken her there? That we could somehow track her down there?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Flynn cautions. “But yes, I think the odds are good that your sister may also be in Hungary.”

Lucy doesn’t answer. The urge to rush out and get onto a plane right now is overwhelming, even as she struggles against the fear that Amy’s captors will twig onto the fact that she’s tried to contact Lucy and will move her, hurt her, or worse. But surely if they’ve kept her alive this far, she is a valuable hostage and they will be at pains to ensure that she stays that way. It makes euphoric relief rush through Lucy, for the first time since this all started, and – well, it’s probably still stupid, but she does not give a damn. She reaches out, turns Flynn’s head as he is looking extremely startled, and kisses him.

There is a split second in which she can feel him about to resist, and then he doesn’t. He grabs at her with both hands, pulling her roughly onto his lap and trying to take control, because of course he does, but Lucy won’t let him. She rises onto her knees, straddling him, pressing on his shoulders with both forearms as she leans down, taking his mouth with savage thoroughness. He breaks off half an inch and tries to say something, and Lucy bites his lower lip, making him grunt. Then he turns his head and kisses her ferociously again, hooking his hands under her thighs and lifting her legs up around his waist as he gets to his feet. Lucy locks her ankles behind his back, feeling a bit like a koala, but she has no objection at all to climbing this particular tree. Mmm. God. Ugh, for such an asshole, he’s an amazing kisser.

They do in fact do that tongue-battle thing for a few moments, until Flynn breaks off again and starts kissing down her neck, nipping at the pulse point on the underside of her jaw and otherwise going at it with the intensity and attention to detail that you would expect from this man. Of course. Act like she’s an annoyance and an imposition, do everything short of actively setting himself on fire to forestall the possibility of anything proceeding in this direction, but Garcia Flynn, you sir are a filthy liar and you should feel bad. He’s kissing her like he might actively die if he stops, face buried in her chest as they stagger backward to the bed and overbalance onto it, her on top of him, their legs entangled and his arms around her waist. Lucy should potentially think this through, but she’s had plenty of time to think (or rather, stew) and she doesn’t want to stop long enough to do that. Her hands come up, fumbling at the buttons, practically ripping his shirt as she gets it off him, and go exploring on the heavy muscles beneath. Flynn makes a deep, low masculine sound of sheer need that makes the hairs on her arms stand up, and grabs at her again.

They roll over on the bed, as he tugs her grey shirt none-too-gently over her head, balls it up, and throws it into the corner. He’s shirtless, she’s in just her bra, and they both still have their jeans on, but it seems likely that those will soon be following the rest of their clothes into the abyss of a not-too-great Parisian hotel room. Flynn grabs Lucy’s hand and pushes it over her head, her legs sprawling open beneath him as he grinds himself hard against her, their breath guttering in their throats. She whines, and he leans above her, mouth following hers, sharing breath but not quite touching, until all at once he kisses her again, and it is immolating.

They roll over again, still silently fighting about who is going to be on top, because both of them are equally stubborn and really should have been working out their exasperation in much more constructive, or at least enjoyable, ways long since. Lucy straddles him, as Flynn makes another inarticulate rumbling sound and bucks up into her. She reaches down with fumbling fingers, thinks it’s long past time for the trousers to make their exit, _God_ she is wet and he is hard and she wants him inside her to the hilt and to lose all sense of separation, wants just to be fucked and to hell with everything else, she needs this, she _deserves_ it –

 – when Flynn’s phone buzzes on the bedside table.

“Just ignore it,” Lucy pleads, raw and breathless, still grinding into him, even as she knows that he probably shouldn’t. His eyes are closed, mouth open in short, gulping catches, hands running up and down on the bare skin of her back, almost encircling her waist. But at that, loathingly, he lets go of her, slides free with a muffled grunt, and grabs the phone.

He looks down at it, as Lucy scoots over to do the same. It is a text message, and chillingly, the equivalent of “the call is coming from _inside the house”_ in a horror movie, it has somehow been sent from Flynn’s own number, disguising its actual origin. It is one word, and one that makes no sense to either of them.

_Rittenhouse._


	9. Chapter 9

**Paris, France**

**9:17 PM CEST**

“Rittenhouse,” Flynn says, the first thing either of them have said since the clothes started coming off – and, let’s be frank, is not in the least what Lucy wants to talk about right now. “What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy’s arms are around his neck, and she is bitterly resenting the phone for choosing now, of all the inopportune moments, to break the mood. She puts her hands back on his face, pulling him toward her as she slides up on his lap. “Come on, just leave it, we can get back to it in a – ”

As she is trying to kiss him again, Flynn utters a soft noise and turns his head, putting his hand against her mouth. “No, we need to think about this. Someone sent this for a reason, it could be important. Besides, I – I don’t know that we should – ”

“Come _on._ ” Lucy was thinking that they had definitively settled the question of whether he would in fact like to consummate this fake marriage, especially given what is still wedged very firmly between her legs. She slides her fingers through his hair, his mouth is quite close to where she is attractively spilling out of her bra, and a shudder passes over him, like a man desperately trying not to listen to the sirens in the passage. “Garcia – ”

Flynn’s hands close around her hips, and for a moment she thinks he’s actually going to brush it off and get on with things. This, of course, is far too optimistic an estimate for anything whatsoever where this man is concerned, because then he shakes his head and pushes her off. “No, I don’t – I – Lucy, we – I don’t – I need to look into this.”

With that, even as he is still shirtless, flushed, lips bruised from kissing, and walking with considerable, ahem, stiffness, he gets to his feet and takes the phone over to his computer, even as Lucy lands on the bed in a state of medically dangerous frustration. Obviously she is not going to force it after he said no, but _seriously?_ Goddamn _seriously?_ They were minutes from her actually getting some satisfaction from all this, they were both happy about successfully getting a bead on Amy’s possible whereabouts, and he was kissing her like she was his light and air, the warp and weft of his existence. Apparently, giving him time for any second thoughts whatsoever is the anti-aphrodisiac. Not that she wants him to rush into anything and make a stupid decision he’d regret, maybe sleeping with someone isn’t something he can just brush off (Lucy has thus far failed at trying to have a trashy one-night stand, she isn’t the best person to ask about this either, but _still_ ). She knows it takes just an ounce of common courtesy not to be a dick to someone you want to have sex with, but it is an ounce that either way, Flynn apparently cannot be arsed to extend to her.

After a long pause seems to confirm that he’s actually going to sit at his computer and think furious boner-removing thoughts, Lucy sits up, hair tousled and bra straps sliding down her arms. She stares a hole through the back of his head, but he doesn’t turn around. Then, since as ever, she is the only person she trusts to handle any of this situation, she strolls into the bathroom, shuts the door with a snap, and commences the rest of her undressing.

Having checked that the walls are in fact thin, and hoping she doesn’t put on too much of a peep show for any other interested Hôtel Wallace patrons, but also too exasperated to care, Lucy turns on the water, waits until it runs slightly hotter than lukewarm, and switches on the shower. Then she steps inside and lets it soak into her hair and trickle down her back, between her breasts and down her thighs like a suspiciously happy woman in a shampoo commercial, and lets out an intentionally audible moan.

If there is any pause in the typing from outside, it’s hard to tell. Lucy, however, is just getting started. She is not usually _that_ loud during sex, but this is being carried out for a specific purpose, and she, for obvious six-foot-four idiot reasons, is feeling just a bit vindictive right now. She strokes down between her legs, works her clit luxuriously with her thumb, and slides two fingers inside, as she’s wet from steam and arousal alike. With a slow pressure both in and out, and plenty of indulgent sighs and gasps, Lucy Preston gets her own-damn-self off, thanks very much. You know, because no one else here is interested in doing it.

Early on, she hears the chair scrape as Flynn apparently wonders if she’s being hurt and starts towards the bathroom, but then the footsteps stop dead and turn around. The typing does not resume, and if Flynn wanted to do anything besides sit and stew in his well-deserved suffering, well, the door’s open, he could come in here and join her. But that would require him to a) realize he’s made a mistake, b) swerve in his apparently ironclad devotion to duty, and c) act like a normal human male, all of which are well outside his capabilities. Lucy sits down in the tub, lets him really have it with the whimpers and moans as she works her fingers in and out between her thighs, and throws one leg over the side to get a better angle for penetration. She closes her eyes and imagines killing Flynn, which is a suitably stimulating thought to push her over the edge, and she bucks up into her hand, spasming.

The silence from the other side of the door is absolutely deafening, she entertains the happy thought that he has in fact had a heart attack and died, and leans back against the grimy porcelain, flushed and gasping, as the water continues to patter down on her. She sits up, washes her hair before the boiler runs out, and makes sure to moan a few times with that too, even though no actual human woman sexually enjoys basic personal hygiene as much as advertisers (and men) think they do. Then she rinses off the soap, steps out, and pulls one of the scratchy towels off the rack. Once she has dried off, she’s sorely tempted to walk out naked and see if that does anything, but honestly, he had his chance, he is not getting any of this tonight. She pulls on her pajamas, brushes out her hair, and emerges. “Well?” she enquires sweetly. “How’s your research going?”

Flynn looks like a man who has climbed up a tree to escape a mob of rabid raccoons below, and his eyes are still rather wide and glazed as he swivels his head around to look at her. “Fine.” It takes him a long moment to remember how to speak. “Fine.”

“Oh? What did you find out?”

“I found out – ” Flynn visibly flails. “I found something out,” he repeats doggedly, though he probably never got as far as typing _Rittenhouse_ into goddamn Google. “I need a little – a little time to work on it. You – should sleep.”

Needs time without distracting sex moans coming from the bathroom, apparently, which Lucy may grant him and may not. She steps over, which once more brings her chest, only covered by a thin T-shirt and still adhering fairly closely to her torso with residual dampness, directly into his line of sight. His eyes practically cross with the effort not to look down – honestly, his self-control is almost impressive, but _Jesus._ Lucy smiles blandly at him. “So what _is_ Rittenhouse, then?”

“I… need to look.” Flynn swivels his chair back toward the desk, bangs his knees into the side, and winces terribly. “Go to bed.”

There are plenty, _plenty_ of rejoinders to be made to that, which are almost too easy. Instead, Lucy raises an eyebrow. “It’s barely ten PM.”

“You’ve had a long day.”

This is true, not that she’s going to admit it. Instead, she trails her fingers over the back of his neck, feels him instantly go stiff as a board, and breathes in his ear, “Okay.”

With that, having probably sabotaged his research for the near future as well, Lucy goes over and crawls into bed, somewhat satisfied from her solo orgasm but still with enough lingering frustration to make her want to punch pillows (or, you know, make it a double). She closes her eyes and listens to Flynn typing, cracking them occasionally to see if he’s glancing over at her, and annoyed with herself for acting like a teenager who wants a boy to have a crush on her. She thinks, however, that any petty vicissitudes on her part are more than excused by what she has to deal with, and she _is_ tired. Eventually, still rehearsing multitudinous ways to work out her frustration somehow, only half of which involve getting potentially convicted for homicide, she manages to fall asleep.

Lucy wakes sometime the next morning to find Flynn already dressed – it’s not clear if he slept on the floor, went into standby mode, or just worked the whole night through, but he certainly did not venture onto the bed, heaven forbid – and frowning vigorously at his phone. Upon seeing her awake, he offers a curt nod but no other acknowledgement, until Lucy can sense that the situation might be serious and it is not the time for more torment. “What?” she says, sitting up. “Is something going on?”

“Not necessarily.” Flynn doesn’t sound convinced, as he enters something into the phone, puts it down, and gets to his feet. “Iris still hasn’t texted me back. The message hasn’t been read, either.”

Lucy wants to say that maybe Iris was just busy, but most college students are surgically welded to their phones, and given everything else going on, she can’t blame Flynn for his apprehension. “Can you call her?”

“I did. Her phone’s off.” Flynn’s mouth tightens. “I was just about to call the university security office at Auckland and see if they could check by her dormitory, but if nothing _is_ wrong and she just – ”

Lucy can see that Flynn is struggling with his natural impulse to protect his daughter, over and against a recognition that he can’t necessarily know where she is every moment of every day, and that since their relationship has de facto involved a lot of independence for Iris, he genuinely isn’t sure whether to do it. After a pause, she says, “Should I do it? I work at the university, after all, and if they hear from me, they might actually believe I’m checking in after an ordinary family emergency, and not just – ”

“No, it would be strange for you to be asking after a particular student. I’ll do it.” Flynn takes out his phone, double-checks the international dialing code for New Zealand (+64) and rings the security office number provided by Lucy. He paces off again, as Lucy ducks into the bathroom to do her morning tidy-up, but when she returns, he looks more tense and furious than ever. “They said she’s not in her room. I asked them to check her institutional email, see if she sent anything to her professors about missing the last two weeks of term, but they said they couldn’t do that because of student privacy regulations. I told them I was her fucking _father_ and if they didn’t find out where my daughter was right now – ”

“Oh no.” Lucy’s stomach sinks. It was bad enough when only one of them had a missing family member, and if it’s Iris too, that is much worse. “Do you think something – some _one –_ got to her?”

“I can’t rule out anything, can I?” Flynn jerks his laptop open, as if he’s going to hack into the University of Auckland IT system right now. Honestly, he probably might. “I thought leaving her was the best way to keep her safe, get her away from me and everything going on with the briefcase – but then, NBB were making those damn comments about knowing where she was, and if they – if someone – ”

White and furious, he starts to do something that is probably terrifically illegal, as Lucy watches him tensely and isn’t sure what to do, feeling guilty over being petulant about their interrupted activities last night. If that weird text message had something to do with Iris’ absence, she’s going to feel even worse. This is not actually an exotic and romantic destination holiday (she wasn’t really in danger of thinking that, what with the people constantly trying to kill them, but still), and anything apart from staying alive (stayin’ alive) might be decidedly off the table. That, or just –

As it briefly seems as if Flynn is close to losing it, his phone unexpectedly vibrates again, and he grabs it. As he looks down at the message, his face relaxes slightly, but his brows remain drawn. Lucy gets up and looks over his shoulder, to see that it’s from Iris. _I’m fine dad. Just dead battery. Don’t call the army lol._

“Maybe it was fine?” Lucy ventures, relieved. “Her phone died and she was staying over somewhere, that was why she wasn’t in her dorm?”

“Maybe.” Flynn seems marginally less likely to cause large-scale havoc than he did a moment ago, which is good, but his scowl doesn’t entirely fade. “I don’t know. Something still feels off about this. We just can’t get in contact with her for twenty-four hours, and then suddenly, once I start making a fuss, we can?”

“College students just wander off sometimes,” Lucy says patiently. “They’re not always thinking about whether their parents can reach them, and of course if you started making a fuss, she would notice and get in contact with you. You don’t talk to Iris every day, do you?”

“No,” Flynn admits. He runs both hands through his hair, as if trying to decide whether it’s now safe to stand down the nuclear missiles, and blows out a breath. “Obviously I’m happy to hear from her, I just…”

With one more look at the phone, he seems to decide that in the lull from one crisis, it is time to attend to another, and gets to his feet. “We’ll try to get a new flight to Budapest today. If you have anything to get together, you should probably do that.”

Lucy muffles a small sigh, as it seems it’s back to business as usual with their frenetic rush between cities and countries, chasing – whoever it is. “Did you find out anything about Rittenhouse?” she asks. “Do you think that’s the name of whatever cartel we’re after, NBB’s rivals? They might be the ones after Khodzhayev’s briefcase too.”

 _“Rittenhouse_ is the name of some famous astronomer from the eighteenth century,” Flynn says. “David Rittenhouse. There are quite a few things named after him in Philadelphia, he taught at the fledgling University of Pennsylvania and corresponded with the Founding Fathers. But how that can possibly be connected to what’s going on right now, I have no damn idea. Maybe it was a mistake, or a wrong number.”

“It was masked to look like it came from your phone,” Lucy says. “It feels like someone was trying to tell us something, but didn’t want us to know who they are.”

“I’m not discounting it.” Flynn glances at her sidelong, as if he’s still getting used to this odd phenomenon of her feeling qualified to advise on the technical details of the case. Lucy wants to point out that the instant he let Jessica’s name drop, she made that connection for him, and also wants to know if he’s found out more about that, but doesn’t want to seem like she’s grubbing for unseemly blackmail on her ex-boyfriend’s wife. She’s over Wyatt, frankly; it’s not like she wants to contrive some grand revenge plot on Jessica, who was always very decent to her even within the context of their awkward and sticky situation. But it might also help her figure out how all this is connected to her, why these people have taken Amy, and everything else that remains inexplicable.

They get their things together, Lucy wonders if it’s worth raising the question of a laundromat or that can wait until Hungary, and traipse out of the Hôtel Wallace and up the street to their rental car. It’s midmorning, but most people are heading into Paris, rather than out of it, so their drive to Orly doesn’t take quite as long as before. They return the car and head inside the terminal, where Flynn takes care of getting their tickets from yesterday transferred onto a new flight. It’s not too bad a jaunt to Budapest, a little over two hours, so they’ll be there by afternoon. Find Amy and stop Connor Mason from being inopportunely murdered? Super easy.

As if in demonstration of the rising difficulty level, their passage through security, for the first time, is not straightforward. Flynn’s documents are real, so it’s not that which catches the French TSA’s attention (sidenote, doing airport security in a foreign language is the worst – on her last trip through France, Lucy lost her boarding pass in Bordeaux and the staff could not give a _merde_ ), but they keep looking back and forth between it and him. Someone asks when Monsieur Preston arrived in the country, and Flynn, truthfully, says yesterday. Then they want to know what his port of departure was, and there’s an awkward pause. Since they did transfer through there, Flynn says, “Madrid.”

The French TSA note that down, then look at Lucy. _“C’est votre femme?”_

“ _Oui,”_ Lucy says, on her own behalf. _“Matthew est mon mari._ ” She slips her hand into Flynn’s, just to reinforce the impression. _“Nous sommes en vacances.”_

There’s a leery moment when it seems as if the officer might check for a Madrid entry stamp, which they don’t have since they didn’t clear customs there, but after a long moment, he relents, hands the passport back, and allows them to proceed. With this and the unexplained lapse in communication with Iris earlier, Flynn is clearly on edge, and it also feels to Lucy like the jaws of the trap might be closing, as if they can’t keep hopping blithely from place to place forever. As Flynn mentioned, she _is_ traveling under her own name, and someone will connect the breadcrumbs between Garcia Flynn and Matthew Preston before much longer, if they haven’t already. There’s also the possibility of him still being wanted for questioning over what happened in Hong Kong, though the U.S. would be very unlikely to extradite a citizen on China’s behalf. Plus, whatever shadowy immunity Flynn gets from NBB has to come into play – but if they’re increasingly suspicious that he might have staged the whole heist and stolen the briefcase for himself, that could be off the table as well.

Lucy tries not to look over her shoulder too often as they sit at the gate. There’s apparently bad weather in Budapest, which is delaying their flight, and she’s very edgy by the time they finally board at three o’clock PM. Get in time for dinner, then. Hopefully.

As they’re preparing to depart, Flynn checks his phone one more time, as if in search of one more message from Iris, anything to put the last of his suspicions to rest. Nothing. His mouth tightens, he dutifully switches it off as the flight attendant comes around to prepare the cabin for takeoff, and with that, they leave Paris.

* * *

**Chennai, India**

**11:54 AM IST**

This is, without a doubt, the weirdest visit home that Iris Flynn has had in her life, and she is still struggling to decide if she has done the right thing or not. They’ve just flown sixteen-odd hours from Auckland, with a stop in Kuala Lumpur (on Malaysia Airlines, which made her briefly concerned that she might also disappear – but then, perhaps she has), and now they’re in Chennai. Her, Dad’s possibly-not-entirely-legit coworker Jessica, and Olivia, which feels like the premise for a wacky all-female heist movie a la _Ocean’s Eight._ Olivia is, to say the least, massively confused on why she was shanghaied into accompanying Iris on a sudden trip when they’re supposed to be back at university and studying for finals, and Iris isn’t sure how much to tell her. She doesn’t want Olivia to panic, she needs some time to work out more, and finally, thinking of nothing else, she says, “Jessica’s my… aunt.”

“Your aunt?” Olivia looks at her weirdly, as they are on the Metro from the airport and sitting together on a seat, keeping their voices low. “I thought your dad was your only family.”

“Yeah, so did I, but she’s my… mom’s sister.” Jessica kind of looks like Iris’s muddled, vague memory of her mother (no way to really say otherwise), and her reappearance now, after years out of touch since Lorena’s death, is at least cursorily plausible. “I guess there’s some family stuff she wants to – to sort out, and it was… important.”

“She needed you for that?” Olivia looks at her worriedly. “You did say the other day that something weird was going on with your dad.”

“Yeah,” Iris says again. She steals a glance over her shoulder at Jessica, who thus far has seemed perfectly happy to play chaperone to two teenage girls, even bought them breakfast in Kuala Lumpur, and otherwise acted as if this is a normal thing to be doing. Iris thought about saying something to the airport officials either in Auckland or on entrance to Chennai, but she is still just enough unsure about Dad’s real motives and actions that she didn’t. Jessica hasn’t used force or been too mean about it, so this can’t be a kidnapping, right? Maybe it’s just actually standard procedure for this lunatic place he works at. Iris loves her father, but she knows very little about him, and it seems like less every day.

Iris leans back on the seat, pulling on her sunglasses and tapping her fingers anxiously together. It’s hot, bright, and sticky as soup, a definite shock to the system after the cool, murky New Zealand winter, and she rubs the back of her hand across her forehead. The one thing that makes her think that it might in fact be difficult if she made a fuss is the fact that Jessica has taken her phone, and Olivia’s doesn’t work outside New Zealand anyway, so it’s not like she has an immediate method of contacting anyone. Besides, Iris is only eighteen years old. She is smart and self-sufficient and fairly used to looking out for herself, but she still lives in a world where adults are older than her and presumed to know what they are doing, and probably have good reasons for it. There is just enough of an instinct not to get in trouble, to be a nice kid, that it’s stopping her from trying anything too drastic. Maybe it’s just paralysis, rather than sense. She’s been stunned for a while, anyway.

They finally reach Chennai Central, and emerge into the sprawling steel jungle, the largest Metro station in Asia, as commuters shove past to every side, Olivia looks intimidated, and it’s left to Iris, the local resident, to lead their way up to the Poonamallee Road exit and out beneath the handsome red-brick façade of the railway station. There’s a daily market going on in the square, buses nose impatiently through the crowds, peeling billboards advertise men’s fashion and cheap flights, shaded stalls sell takeaways and knickknacks, and Jessica looks politely at Iris. “How far to your house from here?”

“About twenty minutes if we walk, but we might want to get a cab.” Iris calculates that between the long flight, the heat, and the anxious way Olivia is looking around, that this might be the best idea. They make their way over to the jammed taxi stand, and get in the frontmost vehicle. The driver gets the slightly startled look they all get at a young white girl speaking to him in fluent Tamil, and as they pull away, Iris leans forward. “I know where I told you to go,” she says, “but take the long way around, maybe backtrack a few times. And then drop us off a few streets over.”

Since neither Olivia nor Jessica speak Tamil, they don’t understand this, but the driver gets a curious look. “Miss,” he says. “Is everything all right?”

Is everything all right, Iris thinks. Isn’t that the question. She is trying to make it less obvious where the house is, to confuse anyone that Jessica might be inclined to call in after her, but then, she’s still taking them there in the first place. Maybe she will run into one of her neighbors, who will be surprised to see her back from school ahead of time and begin to wonder what’s up (though they’ve probably gotten used to the Flynns’ idiosyncratic travel schedule). Maybe Jessica will find what she needs, apologize for the trouble, and put them on a plane back to Auckland tonight. It never hurts to stay positive, right?

Traffic in Chennai isn’t as legendarily terrible as in other Asian cities, but it’s still heavy going, and this, combined with the delays Iris asked for, means that it’s almost forty minutes later when they pull up the requested two streets away. Iris fishes some crumpled rupees out of the bottom of her messenger bag and pays him, tempted to ask him to stay nearby in case she and Olivia need a quick getaway. Would that put him in danger too, though? Iris knows the city, she speaks the language, which Jessica doesn’t. That has to be some kind of advantage, but it still runs into the fact of having absolutely no clue what to do, who to trust, or if she should call Dad even if she did get her phone back. Her instinct, of course, is to tell him, but her faith has been badly shaken. Dad may say he’s a good guy, but she isn’t sure.

They wind through a few alleys and then up to the apartment building, the restored colonial mansion with its locked gate and shady courtyard. Iris buzzes them in with her security card, and Olivia glances around in tentative curiosity. “How long have you lived here?”

“About three years. We moved from America when I was a sophomore in high school.” Iris doesn’t want to let on too much about their past, just in case, but still. For Olivia, who has only been as far as Australia, this is definitely a new experience.

“And she said you were her aunt?” Olivia looks narrowly at Jessica. “Her mom’s sister? What was her mom’s name again?”

There’s a brief pause – Olivia knows damn well what Iris’s mother’s name is, this is obviously not a genuine question – and then Jessica smiles. “Lorena,” she says. “Lorena was my sister, yes. I haven’t seen Iris in a long time, and there are just a few things I needed to check out for something that came up.”

With that, as Iris is left with a brief chill wondering how Jessica _does_ know her mother’s name, they take the stairs up to the second floor. Iris takes out her keys and unlocks it, and they step through into the clean, empty flat. It doesn’t look like Dad’s been here, aside from whatever brief overnight stay after returning from Dhaka, and doesn’t look like anyone else has, either. The windows are closed, the curtains drawn, and it’s stuffy enough for them to break even more of a sweat. Iris goes to air out the place, as Olivia perches awkwardly on the couch and Jessica glances around crisply. “Where would your dad keep his work papers?”

Honestly, Iris doesn’t know, because as well emphasized, Dad does not tell her anything about who he is or what he does. “I don’t know,” she says. “His room?”

Jessica looks at them both, as if judging their prospects of running for it or trying to shout for the neighbors or jumping out the window. Then she tilts her head. “Come on, we’ll look for it together.”

Olivia hesitates, then gets off the couch. As they start down the hall toward Dad’s room, however, she drops back next to Iris and whispers, “ _What’s_ going on? I don’t think that woman is really your aunt. This is insane. We need to call someone.”

Obviously, Iris does not disagree, because long-lost relatives, even obscure ones, do not usually turn up from the blue on your university campus, instruct you to take them to your home in another country, force your best friend/sort-of-girlfriend to go with you as well, and otherwise do anything that Jessica has done. She feels a proprietary responsibility for Olivia, since she is obviously the reason Olivia is here, and cannot let her get hurt. “Look, just… stick close to me, all right? I’m trying to figure something out.”

“Doesn’t your dad do some sort of – I don’t know, clandestine services work? That’s what you were saying the other night. Can’t you – ”

“Look.” Iris looks warily at Jessica. “I don’t know what’s going on right now. Just – don’t do anything stupid, okay? I’ll get us out of this, I just… don’t.”

Olivia looks at her with an expression that wants to trust Iris’s word, but is too far out of her comfort zone to do so unequivocally (for which, really, she can’t be blamed). “Honestly, is she your aunt?”

Just as Iris is about to answer – whether truthfully or otherwise, she doesn’t know – Jessica glances back at them. “What are you two whispering about? Come here.”

Iris and Olivia hesitate, then make their way into Dad’s bedroom, which is sparse and stripped. There’s a framed photo of him and Iris on the nightstand, which Jessica regards with an inscrutable expression, but few other personal touches. The sheets have been taken off the bed and folded, the walls are blank and white except for a few generic art-deco prints, and the overall effect is more like a nice hotel room than a place where someone actually lives. Figures, Iris supposes. Dad passes through, he travels, he moves on. He always does. Even this has been a base of temporary operations, nothing more, and he was talking about coming to Auckland, at least before this whole mess. She feels oddly reticent about snooping into his private things, the secrets a child does not necessarily want or need to know about a parent, but then, that’s assuming there are any. He has left this place pretty bare.

“Does he have a safe?” Jessica asks. “A locked drawer? Anything like that?”

“I don’t _know._ ” Iris is unnerved, running short on patience, and conscious of a low-level, brewing panic. “If you thought I was his little helper, sorry. I’m not.”

Jessica considers her, then nods. She glances at Olivia significantly, as if expecting her to back out of the room, but Olivia remains stubbornly where she is, planted in the doorway. Jessica makes a frustrated noise. “I’m not going to beat her up, all right?”

Olivia looks as if she can’t be sure, but finally takes a step back, gives Iris a look as if to say that she will be right outside in the hall, and allows the door to be shut. Once Iris and Jessica are alone, the tension rises again, the two of them eyeing each other as if in the prelude to a charge. Then Jessica says, “Fine. Has your father ever mentioned the name Rittenhouse?”

“What?” Iris feels as if they have made it more than clear that he’s never mentioned anything, and that this was potentially a question that could have been asked _before_ they made a very dubious exit from Auckland. “Rittenhou _–_ no. What _is_ that?”

“I’m trying to reconstruct some things,” Jessica says, in answer to Iris’s barrage of unasked questions. “I want to know why your dad stole the briefcase from me in Dhaka, what _he_ knows and who he might have told, and it’s very important that I do that. I know this all seems… very sketchy, to say the least, and I apologize. But if I don’t, it’s going to be much worse for everyone, and I would prefer to avoid that.”

Iris studies her, unsettled. She’s not been entirely sure whether she believes Jessica’s version of events, grainy cell phone picture that looks like Dad or not, but something about that catches at her. “Dad… so he… he did steal it?”

“Yes.” Jessica doesn’t look like she’s joking – or lying – about this. If it _is_ some kind of trick, it’s one that she believes too, and she is genuinely here because she is altogether, 100%, unshakably convinced that it was in fact Garcia Flynn who took the briefcase and attacked her in Bangladesh. How that works, Iris has no idea, unless he did do it. “I know you think I’m making it up to force you to cooperate, but I’m not.”

Iris turns away, running both hands over her face. Finally she says, “So what’s Rittenhouse?”

“I don’t want to tell you too much.” Jessica sits down on the bare bed. “That would put you in danger too. It’s another… organization in the same family tree as NBB, let’s put it this way, and it’s one that I’ve also been employed by. They very badly want Dr. Khodzhayev’s briefcase, and until your father took it from me, I was planning to give it to them.”

“Oh…kay?” Iris is not sure what to make of this. It feels like a dangerous thing to know either way, and to her lights, it sounds an awful lot like Jessica just openly copped to being an accomplice for a rival criminal outfit that was willing to go to all lengths to sabotage Dad’s job. “And what is in this briefcase, exactly, or is that definitely something I can’t know?”

“The latter.” Jessica offers a wry smile, as if aware she is asking much and offering very little. “Believe me, it’s more than your life’s worth, or mine, to – ”

At that, she stops. She gets a kind of funny, intent look, staring off into space, as if something very weird has just occurred to her and she doesn’t know whether to take it seriously or not. Jessica frowns, reckons on her fingers, then turns back to Iris, as if about to ask her something, and her answer to that may determine everything going forward. But whatever it is, they don’t find out. That is when they hear a faint crash from outside, then thumping footsteps, and realize that, quite sensibly, Olivia has decided that with all apologies to Iris, she has had enough of this nonsense and it is time to get out of here and flag someone down. Iris and Jessica exchange half a look, as if they’re almost on the same side of this but not quite, then open the bedroom door and run after her.

Iris catches up to Olivia in the outer hallway, flailing out and grabbing awkward hold of her as she tries to plunge down the stairs. Olivia struggles to get free, wild-eyed, as Iris winces horribly and can feel her chances of ever progressing to certified girlfriend status going up in smoke. “Olivia,” she pants. “Olivia. Please listen to me, okay? Please?”

“I don’t know what it is going on here, but that woman is _not_ your aunt. It’s already weird enough that it was, oh hey Olivia, grab your passport, we immediately need to go to India, where I live, and get mixed up in this – I don’t know! I don’t _know_ what is going on here! Are you and your dad traffickers, or – or what?”

“No. No, we’re not.” Iris considers that she can in all honesty only answer this question for herself, and amends it. “I’m not. You’re right, Jessica isn’t my aunt. I’m sorry, I should never have lied to you, but I just wanted to keep us out of trouble. I have no idea what is going on and I just… I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Olivia studies her, wary and watchful, as Iris thinks that while being a Flynn may afford you certain material privileges and a globe-trotting upbringing, it gives you absolutely zilch in the romantic skills department, and that true to form, she appears to have completely blown this. No wonder Olivia has gone from possibly being ready to start a relationship, to thinking she might wake up in an ice bath in a back-alley Indian warehouse with her kidneys missing. Clumsily, cluelessly, Iris reaches out, and Olivia flinches back.

Stung, Iris drops her hand, as Jessica has caught up to them, eyebrow raised. “Not going to have any more repeats of that, are we?”

“It depends,” Olivia says stubbornly. “Are you going to kill us?"

“I’m not going to kill you.” Jessica sighs. “Or beat you up, like I said earlier. We’re trying to solve a rather sensitive work issue with Iris’s father, and since you saw us together in Auckland, that was why I had to take you along. Once we’re sure that everything is sorted out, I’ll send you back to New Zealand, and I’m happy to pay both of you to keep this quiet. A lot, by the way. If you were wondering.”

Olivia’s expression flickers. As noted, her family isn’t exactly rolling in money, and this presents her with a seemingly tailor-made opportunity to help out in a major way – assuming, of course, that Jessica keeps her word. She does seem dogged about her insistence not to hurt the girls if at all possible, but given even the little that Iris knows about Dad’s work, all the good intentions in the world might not make a damn bit of difference when the rubber hits the road. Finally Olivia says, “This isn’t illegal, is it?”

“Ah – ” Iris and Jessica once more are united in awkwardness, and exchange an involuntary look. Then Jessica says, “I’m not asking you personally to do anything illegal, no.”

Olivia mulls that over. Iris glances around tensely, since if a neighbor does see this now, she’ll have to explain, and that is going to be difficult. Then Olivia asks, “Is this going to take very long?”

“Also can’t be sure, but I hope not.” Jessica seems edgy about standing here in the open, and is trying to unobtrusively herd them back toward the apartment. “I’ll try to explain as much as I can if you two promise to cooperate. We don’t need anything difficult, do we? You might appreciate the chance to get out of school early. See the world. All that.”

In fact, Olivia was just saying the other day that she wanted to travel abroad beyond only Australia, though Iris is sure this is definitely not what she had in mind. The money is admittedly a significant inducement, though Olivia will probably judge herself for taking it. Jessica has managed to get them mostly back into the apartment by now, as Iris tries to guess if she is in fact planning to ditch them in the middle of nowhere, or worse. It is hard to be sure. Jessica didn’t need to tell her as much as she already did, but if she’s good at her job, she will say or do anything to keep the client (or kidnap victim) on the hook until the end. Iris could still try to get away and call Dad. Or she could –

Just then, Jessica’s phone rings, startling all of them. There is a look on her face as if she was not expecting that, but as ever, she recovers quickly. Glances at it, and swipes it open. “Yes?”

Another pause. Iris and Olivia crane forward.

Without any noticeable change of expression, Jessica says, “Hello, Flynn.”

* * *

**Budapest, Hungary**

**6:47 PM CEST**

The rain that delayed their flight still hangs over the city in a cloud, splashing in neon streaks across the Grand Boulevard and drumming on countless umbrellas, as Flynn steers them toward the imposing edifice of the New York Palace Hotel ahead. The pavement is slick, Lucy’s foot skids, he reaches out to steady her, and then jerks his hand back, almost causing her to actually fall instead. She gives him a dirty look, such as are many of the looks she has been giving him after the abortive conclusion to their interlude last night. Flynn hunches his shoulders, pulling the collar of his jacket up and wondering if she’ll be at all mollified by the grandiose nature of their new lodgings. Very, _very_ far removed from the humble environs of the Hôtel Wallace, the New York Palace Hotel is about as luxe as it is possible to get. It also usually hosts the delegates to the European Institute of Innovation and Technology, which is just south and west, on the Buda bank of the city. The Danube divides it and Pest, the eastern quarter, spanned by seven bridges and currently pelted by heavy droplets like fat beads of mercury. Flynn is soaked, shivering (it’s _supposed_ to be summer, but the storm front has caused it to drop to 10 Celsius), and in a very grim mood. If he does walk into bloody Connor Mason in the elevator here, he has to be prepared. For what, jury’s out.

Budapest is often regarded as one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, but Flynn is too preoccupied to pay much attention. He’s seen it before, anyway, and while a few procurators do stumble into the job because they want to see the world and don’t mind a bit of semi-legal larceny on the side, they are often the ones who are swiftly out of said job. Flynn got paired with one of those once, working a job in South Africa to retrieve some weapons schematics from Denel. The guy kept talking about wanting to check out Cape Town while they were in the region, heard the beaches were nice, while Flynn was more concerned about the fact that the nice suited men with indeterminate accents, who approached them soon after they left the heavily guarded office park, were definitely Mossad agents. God knows what happened to that fuckwit. As long as the only person he got killed was himself.

Restlessly, Flynn checks his phone, for about the hundredth time in the hour-odd since they landed. He hasn’t been able to shake the sensation that something is off with Iris, and while the Hungarian border control officers have apparently not heard of whatever was causing their French counterparts such alarm, they asked a few more questions than Flynn was entirely comfortable with. If news of his current alias is out on the international grapevine, that is, for obvious reasons, not good. Nor can he count on another rush job from Gareth. He’s just going to have to keep using Matthew Preston and hope for the best.

“Is this it?” Lucy says, as they nip across the boulevard just ahead of a blinking Walk light and pass under the impressive portico of the Palace. She tilts her head back to look up at the ornamented façade, then down at her increasingly disreputable clothes. “I’m definitely not dressed for that.”

“Rich people can do whatever they want,” Flynn reminds her. “We can order an evening gown if you think it would help. Otherwise, just act like you expect everyone to do whatever you say, at once, and possibly before you ask for it, and you’ll be fine.”

“Are you?” Lucy shoots a sidelong glance at him as they step under the dripping awning and have the door solicitously gotten for them by a bellhop with white gloves and brass buttons. “Rich? I mean, not that it – it matters, but with all this traveling… I don’t know if NBB has a company account, or this is all coming out of pocket, but – ”

“Normally they’ll cover the cost of flights and hotels for regular missions, yes.” Flynn debates if Lucy is remotely interested in the minutia of what it takes to file an expense claim in this godforsaken organization, and decides that she is not. “But since this is all off book, I’m paying for it.”

“I can pay you back my share,” Lucy says stiffly. Her cheeks are faintly pink in the elegant chandeliered lamplight of the sumptuous entrance hall. “It has to be a lot.”

“It’s more than an academic paid in New Zealand dollars can easily cover, trust me.” Flynn hasn’t really scratched the surface of what he can afford to pull from a variety of accounts, and he could theoretically keep on going like this for quite a while, even as he devoutly prays that he does not have to. “Once we get your sister back, we’ll call it square.”

Lucy glances at him again. This one isn’t dirty so much as it is uncertain, hopeful and wary and anxious all at once, and Flynn steadfastly pretends not to notice. She trails behind him to the check-in desk, whereupon the helpful clerk mortifies both of them by asking if they would like to upgrade to the Ultimate Romance package for an extra forty euros a night. Flynn has no idea what has given the man the notion that they’re coming here for – well, _that,_ even as Lucy is suddenly struck by a coughing fit that goes on rather longer than is strictly necessary. Flynn curtly declines the offer, and takes out one of his nicer-branded credit cards to pay, just in case the clerk thinks there’s anything odd about two ragged travelers in jeans and T-shirts trying to check into a five-star hotel on the day. Sure enough, the sight of an American Express in an exclusive echelon makes the staff very eager to please indeed, and Flynn wonders if there is any use in getting the hotel concierge to help him out with some enquiries into Amy. These long-suffering individuals have to immediately fulfill even the most eccentric and autocratic requests from their ultra-wealthy clientele. Surely they can find a kidnapped woman. Or assist with anything else from their mounting tribulations here.

Flynn and Lucy step into the elevator, get a snobbish look from someone in head-to-toe Versace, and ride up to their room, which Flynn checks before he unlocks it. They step inside to the dim grey shadows of a luxury hotel room, rain rattling against the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that overlook the river. Lucy eyes the queen-sized bed as if either wanting to collapse on it or worrying about dirtying the counterpane, and stalls awkwardly by the desk as Flynn concentrates on looking through his wallet. Hungary is an EU member, but it, like most of the Eastern European countries, still uses its own currency, in this case the forint, and he needs to change for some if he doesn’t want to be whipping out the AmEx everywhere he goes. He refuses to do it at the airport on principle.

“Sit down,” Flynn says at last, when Lucy remains where she is. “We paid for the place, we could do whatever we damn well wanted in it.”

At that, he immediately regrets his choice of words, which have come out considerably more suggestive than he intended. That unavoidably conjures up the lingering elephant in the fancy hotel room, and Lucy darts a glance at him under her eyelashes, then away. “You know – ” she starts. “Since we – well, we _were_ going to – ”

Flynn doesn’t know what she’s going to say exactly, though he can probably guess, but he looks away quickly. The silence is excruciating. Then he says, “You seemed to be doing all right by yourself.”

“That’s not what – ” Lucy blows out an exasperated breath. “That’s not – I didn’t – ”

They once more stutter to a communal halt over their mutual unwillingness to proceed any further into this landmine of a conversation, even as Flynn supposes that he probably owes her _some_ sort of explanation for this runaround. Even knowing that he should do it, however, by no means implies that he will, as technically he owes people an explanation for any number of things and they seem to be getting along without one. Still, though. He doesn’t think he’s done that badly. Yes, there was… all that the other night, which, if it hadn’t been interrupted by the mysterious text, might have ended up in a place that could not be taken back. But while even Garcia Flynn is not so thick-headed as to be completely oblivious as to Lucy’s interest, at least for a quick, dirty, and shameful one-night sort of thing, his plan has been to pretend he didn’t notice and hope it goes away. He has had about three relationships in his entire life, and outside of that, his experience is limited. It’s not that he doesn’t know what to do in the technical sense; Lorena and Matej never had any complaints, thank you very much. But the emotional entanglement… he doesn’t think he can manage that. Whatever Flynn feels for Lucy, it is more than simple, straightforward lust, deeper than surface-level attraction. If that was the case, he would take what she was offering and get on with it. But this is different, and feels like he shouldn’t do it unless he really means it. What with this – with everything – he can’t know that, and so he stalls and spins his wheels and sinks deeper.

“I’m – ” Flynn considers whether he actually needs to apologize. He doesn’t think so, but it belatedly occurs to him that he has been opaque, to say the least, at communicating any of this to her. He does admit that selecting a married couple as their cover story could possibly imply something private in support of it, and that he has not always been convincing about adhering to it. But nobody’s checking their bedroom, or at least he really hopes not. He does not need to go all in in the name of method acting. He can’t figure out what Lucy would see in him, anyway. Sure, he’s not hideous, but that’s it. Unless it really is just the superficial attraction, the willingness for a passing fling but nothing more serious, and oddly, that hurts him in a way he does not want to think about. He met this woman barely three weeks ago. Yes, their subsequent career has been eventful, but he still shouldn’t care this much.

Seeing that he’s not about to say anything more, Lucy flushes again, “Well,” she says at last, very coolly. “I’m freezing. I think I’m going to take a hot shower.”

Flynn almost asks if she means shower or “shower,” but that’s definitely nothing he is entitled to know, and he clamps his mouth shut, turning away, as Lucy goes into the palatial marble bathroom and shuts the door. Once the water is running, Flynn listens carefully for any more sounds of the self-pleasure variety, as if to reassure him that Lucy is in fact enjoying an orgasm even without his contribution. There are none, which leaves him even more in a jumble than before. To distract himself, he sits down on the bed, scrolls through his phone, and then, on a split-second moment of impulse, calls Jessica.

It rings a few times, but isn’t answered. Flynn hangs up rather than leave a message, then calls Iris, hoping against hope that she will pick up and tell him that his worrying is baseless. He _wants_ to believe that she’s just been unusually independent from her phone for a few days, but he does not feel better when it too rolls over to voicemail. If there was serious trouble, she’d find a way to contact him somehow, wouldn’t she? She’s a young woman who lives by herself, she’s perfectly capable, but she’s also still his little girl, and she has to know that he would drop everything and get there as fast as he could… right?

(Unless, a slithery voice whispers in his head, Iris _didn’t_ think he could help anymore, actually and honestly felt that he would just leave her to deal with it alone, and thought it might be more than it was worth to involve him. If the situation with Lucy feels like a gut punch, that is a full-body blow.)

Flynn is just debating whether to keep calling Iris until she picks up, even though this will be very annoying, when Lucy steps out of the bathroom, pink-cheeked and damp-haired, and awkwardly crab-walks toward her suitcase. Evidently she did not want to put back on her wet, dirty clothes, and forgot to bring a fresh set into the bathroom. He looks up despite himself, even after telling himself not to, and their eyes lock. Lucy’s not _indecent,_ she’s wrapped in a good-sized bath towel and everything that should be covered is, but Flynn knows that he could drop it with a flick of his fingers, and there would be nothing underneath. His imagination helpfully conjures a memory of last night, how goddamn _good_ it felt, how raw and rare and beautiful. He doesn’t trust whatever expression might be on his face. He needs to look away now, but he can’t make his head turn.

“Don’t…. mind me,” Lucy says, after a moment so tense that the words feel like a match lit in a gunpowder factory. “I’m just… getting dressed.”

There’s an ever-so-faint undertone in her voice that suggests she doesn’t have to, if he wants to get up and take a hand, and Flynn almost chokes on air. He rises to his feet almost despite himself, moving closer like a man in a dream, and Lucy shudders from head to toe as his hands settle on her waist. Steam from her warm, wet skin is still rising between them, and Flynn can smell the clean tang of the hotel shampoo. He raises one hand, tousling her wet dark hair out of her eyes, and the back of his fingers brush along her cheek. His other hand, still on her waist, pulls her closer, molding her against him at full length, and he is already starting to strain at his jeans, which is very bad and should be stopped immediately before she notices. His chest is even tighter, he is not getting nearly enough breath for anything to properly function, and Lucy utters a small whimper as she arches her back, pressing herself closer still. Flynn very genuinely fears he has just had a minor cardiac arrest.

He tips his head, mouth skimming close to the tops of her damp breasts, not quite a kiss. His hand on her cheek slides down to press between her shoulder blades. Lucy is lifting one leg, trying to get her knee alongside his hip, but he is too tall for her to do it without straining on her tiptoes. He grabs hold of her thigh and pulls it up, fingers pressing into the muscle of her leg like Bernini carved in marble, gets his other hand behind her head, and with that, entirely against every smart plan he has had in his life, Flynn is – to his total horror – kissing her.

Lucy grips at his face with both hands, as he shifts his grip and grabs her by the other thigh, lifting her to get both legs around his waist. The towel is in serious danger of becoming irrelevant, and Flynn thinks absurdly that since he did not in fact purchase the Ultimate Romance upgrade, he isn’t sure how this is somehow happening anyway. Their mouths are open, hot and aggressive and hungry, and they make out for several moments more. Then Lucy’s hands fist roughly in his hair, pushing his head lower, down the slender column of her neck and into the generous curves of her cleavage.

Flynn’s brain nearly shorts out on the spot, not that it was doing so well before, and he vainly tries to pull away, but only succeeds in venturing deeper. The towel slips down, he shucks it the rest of the way off her and throws it on the floor like a dirty rag, and thinks in panic that a man of his professional vocation really should have more self-control and personal discipline. Then again, he’s held off this far, and he will shortly get around to doing it again, he swears. Except Lucy is now naked and soft and warm in his arms, they’re still twined around each other like a pair of flowering vines, and _Jesus,_ he is in so, so much trouble.

Lucy presses on his shoulders, gently but relentlessly lowering him to his knees, and Flynn goes down before her like a sinner on the prie-dieu, the light slanting through the stained glass and carven eyes, somewhere, watching from on high. He is undone by the nearness of her, the scent, the softness of her beneath her fingers. He grips her thighs, spreads her legs, can sense the wetness of her like a spring rain, and knows, _knows,_ that he was just reminding himself about not doing this earlier, that he isn’t ready, that he will be thrown into a depthless ocean with no chance to swim. He tried to move on after Lorena and felt guilty enough about it, but he never planned it to happen with Matej, resisted it as hard as he could, and then when it ended and left his life and his heart in even more disarray, when he ran all the way to America and into this job, when the scars have never eased, the guilt has never stopped –

Flynn’s mouth is very close between Lucy’s legs, but not quite touching, as he wrestles madly with his desire to just do it, stronger than anything he has ever felt in his life, and the sirens going off in his head about how he will wreck it, he will ruin it, he knows what he’s like with this, he can’t. It’s Iris’s professor, there has to be something suspect about that, right? Obviously, ethics in the sense that the ordinary person would understand them are either incidental or actively irrelevant to Flynn’s life, but this is different. He doesn’t do intimacy. He’s just as bad with emotions. Maybe Lucy can separate love and sex, but he isn’t sure that he can. He wants, he wants, he _wants,_ and not just her body. He doesn’t know what, but he does.

Flynn makes a choked gulping sound, like a starving man with a banquet spread before him and yet suspecting the worst if he dares to take a single bite. He brushes his lips over the top of Lucy’s thigh instead, nosing her lightly without moving in, as she notices his tension and shifts back. “I’m – I’m sorry.” Her voice sounds small, almost frightened, as if she has in fact been too forward and obviously doesn’t want to force the issue. “We don’t have to – ”

Mixed up as he most thoroughly may be, Flynn does not like that sound from her, as he can tell instinctively that she is someone who has spent a long time being told that she is not enough, she is not doing her best, she is not sufficient the way she is, but could always try just that bit harder. He wonders who was responsible for that – her mother, maybe, the one who died and left eight million dollars of mess in her daughters’ laps, causing one to go missing and the other to be stuck here with him, which is possibly an even worse fate – and something about it snaps his paralysis. He is about to demonstrate to Lucy, thoroughly and with repeated examples, that he more than wants her how she is, when, yet fucking _again –_

– the phone rings.

For once, it’s not Flynn’s phone. This time, instead, it’s Lucy’s, and she freezes, then pulls back from him, grabs her towel, and runs for it. She swipes at it, almost dropping it due to the tremor in her hands. “Yes?”

Flynn sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with an also-shaking hand, almost unspeakably relieved that he has been, so to speak, saved by the bell for the second time. He cranks his head fractionally around to see Lucy’s face freeze, then go blank. She starts to say something, then stops. For a further thirty seconds, it sounds like someone on the other end of the phone is saying something, and Flynn strains to hear, but can’t make it out. It’s only when Lucy hangs up, still looking stunned, that he ventures, “Who was – was it your – ”

“No. It wasn’t Amy. It was… very strange.” Lucy seems to be having trouble concentrating for more than one reason. “Some kind of clever forgery, maybe, but they – but he – said there was a place by the Danube Promenade that we needed to go to and – ”

“Who said?” Flynn gets to his feet, determined to focus on something, anything, to clear his head. “Who was that?”

Lucy eyes him, as if trying to confirm that he is in fact here and not somewhere else. She takes a breath. Then she says, “You.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Budapest, Hungary**

**10:30 AM CEST**

The Mason Industries private jet landed at Ferenc Liszt International Airport this morning, Rufus is still yawning a little but doesn’t want to waste what is only his second international trip by sitting on his ass in the hotel, and is working up his nerve to plunge into the streets and also contend with Hungarian, which is the world’s most insecure language if its need to cram every single letter of the alphabet into every word, in tongue-twisting combinations, and then strew them with incomprehensible symbols is anything to judge by. Rufus reminds himself that an honor student at MIT, who breezes through advanced quantum physics and once corrected an error in his calculus textbook at the age of thirteen, can probably master a language, but he isn’t entirely sure. He dutifully learned some basic phrases on the plane over, but even fuckin’ “thank you” is “köszönöm.” How do you say that, Hungarian? Why do you hate joy, Hungarian? Who hurt you, Hungarian?

As Budapest is an international city popular with tourists from around the world, Rufus can probably scrape by in English if he has to, but he wants to at least make an effort (doomed as it may be). Plus, this is the place with the far-right ruling party and prime minister who seems determined to take the country back to the iron-curtain days of Cold War yore in his attempted dictatorial foibles, and Rufus doesn’t want some Orbán devotee running up to him and dragging the clueless American off to the pokey. Fortunately (?), walking down the street while black is an occupational hazard in the States too, and he’s probably safer here than there. Rufus’s provincial outlook already bit him in the butt once, when he naively assumed that since Hungary was in the EU, it used the euro, and changed for those before realizing he needed forints instead. The denominations are still pretty whack with those. A cup of coffee, about three euros, is 973 forints. The smallest bill is the 500.

Difficulties of language and currency aside, however, Rufus _is_ looking forward to this trip. Budapest is an ultra-modern city on the cutting edge of high-tech development; the entire public transit system is contactless and smartphone-integrated and otherwise A La Mode, they’re here for the conference at the European Institute of Innovation and Technology with nerds and their pet projects from around the world, and there’s a satellite office, EIT Digital, where Rufus has already been invited to give a presentation. He also hopes that this snaps Connor out of his funk. He has been very distracted by some work issue, one that he won’t even tell Rufus about. Some kind of missing delivery, something he engaged a shadowy third-party service to acquire from a secret Russian lab. Rufus hopes it’s okay, but it seems like something always goes sketchy when Russians are involved.

Having reached his private room in the New York Palace Hotel and unpacked his bags, Rufus freshens up, grabs a rucksack, and throws a few city-exploring things into it, including his camera, as he has wanted to stop and gawk on pretty much every street corner. The conference starts tomorrow, so he has free time, and one of the numerous perks of the job is that you have a very generous travel stipend. Well then, time to be an educated global citizen.

Rufus wanders out, snaps several pictures for the Instagram feed, and texts them to Jiya, who is stuck back in the Bay Area on an extended project deadline and thus is missing the Budapest trip, something she is very jealous about. Connor has promised that she has a priority place on the Amsterdam one this November, and right now, she’s probably not even awake, since Hungary is nine hours ahead of California. But Rufus is a thoughtful boyfriend, and takes various videos of the palace squares and the Parliament building and the bridges over the Danube. He even manages to buy a pastry in Hungarian-if-you-squint. Success.

The weather has been nice that morning, but after noon, it swiftly turns unsettled and stormy, the temperature dropping fifteen degrees and towers of lightning skewering out of the dark clouds. This leaves Rufus marooned in a coffee shop, which is at least the nicest coffee shop he has ever been in, as it is apparently a specialty of Budapest’s. It’s done in ornate baroque architecture, rococo ceilings and heavy gilding and mahogany tables, and Rufus opens his laptop and starts looking through his project notes, as he doesn’t want to look like an idiot in front of a lot of glamorous multilingual Europeans. It’s good to travel, really. It shows you that the world is large and there is a lot of it, that you can go somewhere and step out into an entirely different environment and place of being and way of living, and it’s not always done just like it is at home. Now that he has the money, Rufus should do it more often.

He’s thus engaged, horrified at the eight hundred typos that have apparently managed to slip through his proofreading last night, when he becomes aware of someone watching him from across the café. He briefly fears that it is indeed one of the white-nationalist types, since Europe has been having an uncomfortable amount of that recently, and the man looks terrifying anyway. Seeing Rufus looking at him, he feigns an unconvincing interest in the newspaper, sips his espresso, and then finally gets up and strolls closer. “Good afternoon,” he says, in accented English. “Is this seat taken?”

Rufus shirks. Since he does work for a high-profile, multinational tech company, he has been intermittently approached by weirdoes before, hoping he’ll help fund whatever wacky idea they have scribbled on the back of a bar napkin, or give them an introduction to Connor. But they usually find his name online and then try to meet him in person, which is always super fun and not at all stalkery when it happens (he’s made his Facebook as private as possible, but Facebook and privacy, _ha_ ). Unless this guy did that already, but he isn’t sure. Finally he says, “Can I help you?”

The other man smiles, briefly and coolly. “I’m not here to hurt you, Rufus.”

“Excuse m – ?” Rufus glances around to see how far it is to the exit, if he can tip over a fancy table and book out, or anything else he might need to do. “How do you know my name?”

“We’ve met,” the man says, though Rufus is pretty sure they haven’t. “I’d just like to ask you a few brief questions. That delivery Connor Mason is waiting for, given as you’re a consultant on the project, maybe you have some insight?”

“Wh – ” Rufus stares at him. Maybe he works for some rival company – Tesla, say – and is here in an attempt to one-up the competition. “Why?”

“You need to trust me,” the man says a little impatiently, apparently in total oblivion to the fact that nobody in their right mind would think this interaction was on the up-and-up. “It’s important. Mason Industries is working with Rittenhouse, or at least they were, but someone wouldn’t have been hired to divert the briefcase if it was destined to go there all along. So has Mason gone rogue? I’m just trying to help him, trust me.”

“Uh-huh.” Rufus’s sphincter says otherwise. Besides, a solid three-quarters of that sentence is Klingon to him, and he actually speaks Klingon. “Look, buddy. I have no idea what you’re talking about. So how about you go bother someone else?”

“It’s _important,_ ” Shady European Guy repeats, as if Rufus went mysteriously deaf the first time. “And no, I can’t tell you why.”

Rufus scrutinizes him, trying to figure out what national intelligence service or private security outfit he might work for. Both, possibly; he looks like the type. Oh God, he was just joking about the whole being-thrown-into-foreign-jail thing. Finally, since it’s the most obvious of his many questions, he says, “What briefcase?”

“Dr. Ershut Khodzhayev’s briefcase,” his mysterious interlocutor says, as if that’s helpful. “Connor Mason paid a particular company to acquire it for him. But he hasn’t gotten it yet, and it’s worrying him. Is that accurate?”

Yes, Rufus supposes, it is, even as he is further unnerved that this random guy seems to know far more about the inner workings of the company than Rufus himself, a faithful employee of several years, does. Mason has been very hush-hush about this new project, even to close confidantes, and Rufus doesn’t know what exactly they’re developing. He figured Connor was waiting to make a splash at the shareholders’ meeting, or maybe unveil it on stage at the EIT conference, the big pièce de résistance. This dude is the last person he should be asking for proprietary intellectual information, but nonetheless, Rufus ventures, “Do you work for that company, by any chance?”

“Formerly.” The man considers him closely. “Anyway, do you know where Connor is?”

Rufus is obviously not about to tell someone who could be anyone from a GRU agent to a random disturbed weirdo where his important billionaire boss is. “No.”

“Aside from the New York Palace Hotel, that is?” The man arches a dark eyebrow. Dammit, this creep is good. “I looked there earlier, but he must have already left, and it’s going to be complicated to come back this afternoon.”

“Why, because they already put a wanted poster out for you?”

“Something like that.” The man turns his head sharply, checking the café door as it opens and shuts, then looks back at Rufus. “I promise, this will all make more sense later. Anyway, you should ask Connor about Rittenhouse.”

“Ritten – what?”

Again, the man’s eyes perform that flick, checking for nearby eavesdroppers or anyone who might only be pretending to listen to their headphones. “Just do it.”

“Look, you – ”

By the expression on his face, this is a man who spends a lot of time baffling common sense and basic civility alike, as he doesn’t seem that ruffled by Rufus’s indignant confusion. Then he reaches into his pocket and palms out a card, which doesn’t have a name, only a number. “For later. You’ll have questions.”

With that, completely ignoring the fact that Rufus obviously has questions _now,_ the most pressing of them being which mental institution this individual escaped from, he gets up, puts on his jacket, and opens the door, striding out into the heavy rain and vanishing down the street. Rufus sits there in a state of mild shock, rubs both eyes hard in case that was a delayed jetlag-induced hallucination or who the hell knows what, and is left to conclude that it appears to have happened. Thanks, Mr. X. That wasn’t terrifically freaky or unhelpful or anything. Rufus has no idea what _Rittenhouse_ is, as hard as he strains, until he finally comes up with a dim memory that he might have heard it in passing, on a low-voiced phone call that Connor hung up as soon as he realized that Rufus was outside his office. It _is_ true that Connor has seemed especially worried about this, but that doesn’t mean that Rufus is entitled to get mixed up in this, or that he wants to. Mason Industries is powerful and wealthy, and as such, it has plenty of enemies and critics. You don’t make a few exclusive-defense-contracts-for-small-countries omelets without breaking eggs. Or other things.

Completely unsettled, concentration to edit his presentation shot, Rufus decides that he’ll just have to risk the rain, shuts his laptop and sticks it in his bag, and pulls up his hood to step into the deluge. It’s lessened somewhat, though there are sullen spears of lightning and threatening growls of thunder, and the temperature has dropped enough to be chilly, even in late May. Rufus navigates through the crowds, thinking vaguely that he should take pictures of more pretty architecture for Jiya, but right now, he kind of wants to be inside with a door that locks. He should definitely warn Connor that there might be a credible threat to his security, right? Except Connor would ask how he knew, and Rufus has no idea what to say.

Rufus is soaked by the time he reaches the hotel, squashes inside, and makes his way up to his room in doleful estate, where he dries off and dangles from the horns of his dilemma like a champ. Finally, he decides that he’ll just nip down the hall and see if Connor is even here. He probably has ten thousand things to do before the conference, he won’t be sitting in his room, and thus Rufus can be considered to have made a reasonable effort and excused from further attempts to humor crazy Mr. X and his crazy –

It is thus vastly to his chagrin when Connor opens the door, wearing reading glasses, holding a tablet, and looking confused. “Rufus? Everything all right?”

“Uh.” Rufus stalls. “The weather’s pretty bad, huh?”

Connor swivels his head to look at the window, as if to check for a rain of frogs or locusts or some other exceptionally unusual meteorological event that would presage Rufus’s presence here. Upon just seeing rain, he looks confused. “I’m sorry, did I miss – ?”

“I’m sorry to bother you.” Rufus antsily shifts his weight. He is not a big fan of confrontation, especially not with his fancy, important, super-rich boss. Even if Connor has had a particular interest in him for years, taken a hand in his education and employment, this isn’t easy. “I, uh, was just… just wondering if you had heard about…”

“About what?” Mason’s tablet pings, and he looks down to check it. “Rufus, I _am_ quite busy, so unless it’s urgent – ”

“Rittenhouse,” Rufus blurts out, because he’s lost track of wherever else he was going with that, and if he is in fact doing this, it’s probably just better to jump straight in and get it over with. “If you’d heard about something called Rittenhouse.”

There is a long, impossibly fraught second, in which Connor’s face remains totally blank. Then, like a wildfire taking hold of arid grassland, it hits. Horror, confusion, outrage – and a healthy proportion of terror – overtakes his face all at once, and he practically drops the tablet in his haste to seize Rufus by the sleeve and bundle him into the room, slamming the door behind him. “I beg your pardon?” he hisses. “Who on _earth_ told you that?”

“I’m sorry.” Rufus has no idea what insane impulse actually made him go through with it. “I’m sorry, I just – someone said that I should… that I should ask.”

Connor eyes him warily, as if to judge as if this is in fact mild-mannered Rufus Carlin, software engineer by day and Super Geek by night, and not someone he has abruptly changed bodies with along the way. He puts down the tablet to avoid any further calamities, but continues to look as if Rufus might pounce on him. “Did someone put you up to this?”

“It’s very complicated. I promise, I don’t know how to explain it.” Rufus blows out a jagged breath. “Connor, if it’s – honestly, I can go.”

Mason continues to regard him, eyes hooded, expression showing more than a hint of apprehension. Finally he asks, “Have you said that name to anyone else?”

“No.” Rufus was hoping he’d get a weird look and a shrug and Connor wouldn’t have a damn clue. Not this… whatever it is, he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t feel good. “Connor, what’s going on?”

“I rather think that is for you to explain at this point, isn’t it?” Mason’s hands are trembling slightly, but he clenches them hard. “Who has been trotting around Budapest saying that name to you – unless you heard it well before, and have only decided to bring it to me now?”

“No, it’s a new development.” Rufus debates if he wants to get into the subject of Mr. X, and decides that he doesn’t, but if Connor is in danger, he has a right to know. “Some guy in a café approached me today and told me to ask you. I don’t know why I did it, but it freaked me out, and I…” He trails off. “I hoped it was some kind of bad practical joke.”

“I assure you, it is not a joke.” Connor paces unconsciously by the window. “What did this mysterious individual look like, by the by?”

“Tall,” Rufus says. “Accent of some kind. Brownish hair and a beard, glasses. I don’t know, he could have been from anywhere. But he knew who I was, and he knew about this Rittenhouse… thing. He hinted that it was connected to whatever work issue has you concerned. This missing delivery.”

“So he knows quite a bit about this, does he?” Mason looks as if he doesn’t want to find out how much worse this could get. “That is not a name to go about yammering. You knowing it puts you in – well, let’s just say it would be best if you forget that you ever heard it. I don’t know what this person is playing at, sending you to confront me over it, but for now, suffice to say that I had… some association with them a while back. We had a professional disagreement, and parted ways. At least, so I thought.”

“These Rittenhouse people?” It’s clear that Mason doesn’t want to say the name aloud, or else he’s just being cloak-and-dagger, but Rufus needs a little clarification. “You were working with them? What do they do?”

“Seeing as you’ve just popped up at my door with an _extremely_ suspect story and a mysterious new friend, you’ll excuse me if I don’t go into details, Rufus.” Connor is regaining some of his self-possession, but he is still deeply rattled. “As I said, we worked together, then we didn’t. Apparently, they have an interest in regaining our partnership, or – something of the sort. I’m not sure, and I suppose I _can_ thank you for tipping me off that I should look into this again. Please, though. Do not go meddling.”

Rufus wasn’t really inclined to do that anyway, but Connor is clearly taking this as anything but some lame stunt, and that sends a chill down his back. For half a moment, he is in fact tempted to dig out Mr. X’s card and call him, but that definitely counts as meddling, and Rufus just wants to end this trip without turning up floating in the Danube. “Connor, is… everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” Connor forces a strained smile. “Though I may suggest that you don’t take any more business advice from random individuals in cafes. Oh, and tell me if you see him again, won’t you? I’d like a word with my security team.”

Rufus supposes he can try to whip up a composite sketch, as he _can_ draw, but mostly only where system plans and distribution charts are involved, not fine art or detailed faces. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he says, which seems disingenuous. “I just… wanted to know what was going on.”

“I don’t blame you for it.” Mason sighs. “Of course it would be natural to be curious if you’d been ambushed in such an alarming fashion. All you need to know is that I’m aware of it, and I suggest getting on and enjoying the rest of your time here. How’s the presentation going?”

“I’m working on it.” Or at least, Rufus thinks, he was. “Connor, are you _sure_ I can’t…?”

“Yes. Quite.” Mason’s smile this time is even more forced than the last. “Really, Rufus, absolutely nothing good can come of you getting fussed up with this. Trust me.”

“Okay.” Rufus is relieved to get out of here unscathed, if indeed that’s what’s about to happen. But to his consternation, and against every one of his natural instincts, he doesn’t want to totally forget about it. Not that he’s going to rush out and launch a full criminal investigation, but it has left him with an unsettled feeling in more ways than one. Mason clearly has no desire to talk about it, and it’s not like Rufus is surprised that he might have a few shady contacts. As he was just thinking about earlier, you don’t make a billion dollars just by being wholesome and clean-cut and turning up on time for work. There will be deals with the devil involved somewhere. But what kind of devil is this, and why are they here now? Are they planning to go away again? Somehow, it doesn’t seem likely.

“Thanks,” Rufus says, into the awkward silence. “I guess… I’ll just… go?”

With that, he backs out of the room, even as Connor remains where he is, looking spooked. Rufus glances reflexively over his shoulder, as if someone might be lurking in the hallway. They’re not. Of course. They’re not. And yet.

Oh God, what the hell, what the _fuck._

He is, in fact, going to have to call Mr. X.

* * *

It is very dark in the pedestrian underpass ahead, this feels like a prime spot to be jumped again by Don Church or one of his friends, and Lucy is half-convinced that whoever’s voice that was on the other end of the phone, that tersely gave her this address and said she should go, the one that sounded exactly like Flynn, was a hoax. It could very well be, especially if his own organization has turned on him. Record parts of his voice, patch it into one audio file, and use it to place a misleading phone call, have it on hand as faked evidence if anyone ever gets around to investigating this. Who, that’s still well beyond Lucy’s pay grade to figure out, and this has gotten so weird that anything could be on the table. But one thing’s for sure, it wasn’t _actually_ Flynn, as in the man standing tensely in front of her, gun out, ready to blast the bejesus out of some unsuspecting skateboarder or graffiti artist that might suddenly venture down here. He can’t be in two places at once.

“Clear,” Flynn whispers, sounding as if he isn’t sure he believes it. Having more or less ascertained that they are not about to die, they scuttle into the walkway, as grimy lights flick on and cast shadows across the scarred cement. It looks like any other sleazy, out-of-the-way place that Lucy would not walk alone at night, and she reflexively grabs Flynn’s non-gun arm, tucking herself against his side. He gives her an odd look, but doesn’t demur. They have no idea what exactly they’re supposed to be looking for, and Lucy will obviously let go if he needs to tackle someone, but –

There might be another motion up ahead, but it could just be the buzzing lights. Technically, Lucy thinks, this is probably what he spends a lot of his time doing anyway – retrieving unnamed objects from sketchy locations on suspect information – but it feels different. What they are going to do once they get this one, she doesn’t know. Person-Who-Sounded-Like-Flynn wasn’t that helpful. Which, frankly, he shares in common with the real one.

They make it halfway down the walkway, then furiously attempt to look casual as a bike messenger rockets in, nearly gives them a heart attack, and clatters away out of sight, spokes rattling. Flynn swears under his breath and scans the walls, then steps toward a crack in the cement, kneeling down to examine it and shoving his gun in his waistband (he does turn on the safety first, because he isn’t a _total_ idiot). Lucy steps up behind him, waiting, as Flynn removes the broken pieces piled in the front. “Well?” She keeps her voice low, but it echoes anyway. “Is there something in there?”

“Maybe.” Flynn doesn’t look up, attention on the work. _“Who_ did you say was on the phone again?”

“As I have said several times now, it sounded like you.” Lucy glances over her shoulder just in case. “I don’t know how.”

“Are you _sure_ it was me? It could be someone else.”

“I have spent quite a while with you by now,” Lucy points out, irritated by the implication that she cannot be trusted to identify the voice of the man she has been essentially living with for the past several weeks. “It could have been some electronic trickery or pre-recording or something else, but it was you, you told me to go here and look for something in the underpass, and that it would make more sense once we’d got it. You didn’t let me get a word in edgewise. Then you hung up.”

Flynn snorts, as if to say this total lack of common courtesy or basic information is perhaps indeed what he would do, and Lucy rolls her eyes at the dirty ceiling. Pushing aside the obvious question of if Flynn has a twin brother he never knew about, an evil clone, or something else in that vein, she waits until he has chiseled out the loose concrete and exposed a gap in the wall. It’s just large enough to hide a package in, and that appears to be exactly what is Flynn is pulling out: a battered manila envelope threaded shut and sealed with tape, with no name on the front or identifying postmark. Flynn looks as if perhaps he shouldn’t be touching it without gloves, in case there are fingerprints. Then again, the mysterious person probably thought of that, and he has to get it out somehow. He tugs and twists, trying not to rip the paper, and it finally grates free. They look at it, as if to check for the ticking of a clock bomb from inside. There are no wires or suspicious powders, but to say the least, they do not know who put it there or why, and if they have done the right thing in coming to get it.

“Let’s get out of here,” Flynn says, shoving the envelope into his jacket and taking Lucy’s elbow. He looks around a final time for any hidden cameras or lurking saboteurs, then hurries them out, up to the glittering overlook of the Danube Promenade. The city sparkles on both halves of the riverbank, the impressive buildings, gothic cathedrals, iron-arched bridges, and the Hungarian Parliament are thrown in floodlights, the spring night is warm and lazy, and it feels as if someone has pushed play on the world again after the strange, frozen silence of the underpass. Lucy reaches in her pocket and checks her phone, as if to see if anyone has called her, but nothing. Flynn thought Amy might be here, right? Her phone triangulated to roughly this area? Assuming her kidnappers didn’t find out about her trying to send a message to Lucy and move her elsewhere, but still. If there is _anything_ useful in that envelope –

Flynn quick-marches them back to the New York Palace, Lucy blowing in his wake as she has to take two and a half steps for every one of his, and they are just heading through the doors when they run into someone coming the other way under an equal amount of steam. He and Flynn bounce off each other like billiard balls, the other man starts to apologize – then looks up, and blanches. “Wait. Mr. X?”

“What?” Flynn stares at the other: a young African-American man, or at least he has an American accent so that’s where he’s probably from, wearing a hoodie, jacket, and jeans and clutching a rucksack. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

“I just – ” The man stares at him, rubs his eyes, and frowns. “I’m sorry, for a second, you just looked a lot like some guy I met this morning.”

Flynn and Lucy glance at each other, then back at the newcomer. Flynn says, “Excuse me, what guy?”

“Okay, you definitely sound like him. That’s freaky.” The man weighs them up, as if to judge the possibility of an elaborate practical joke, or if the laws of a big city like Budapest means that you might just randomly run into two people who look and sound a lot like each other and have it actually be nothing more than coincidence. “You don’t have a brother, do you? Beard, glasses, likes to crash cafes and drop unsettling information on innocent passersby?”

“No. Not that I know of.” Flynn is looking more suspicious by the instant. “What did you call me? Mr. X?”

“He didn’t give me a name, so that was what I had to – ” The other man breaks off. “Am I sure I should be talking to you?”

“Trust me, I have no idea what’s going on either,” Flynn says, more than a little grimly. “And you are?”

“Rufus.” The name is offered very warily, but he doesn’t appear to be able to think of a good lie on his feet. “Rufus Carlin.”

Flynn’s eyes flick to the logo on his bag. “You’re with Mason Industries?”

“Yes.” Rufus Carlin frowns at him, then turns to Lucy. “I’m sorry, are you with him?”

“Yes,” Lucy says in turn. “I’m Lucy. That’s my husband, Matthew. We… well, we’ve had a few things going on, and we might need to talk to your boss.”

“You’re not the first people who’ve asked that today.” Rufus folds his arms. “In fact, I was just about to – well, never mind. And you want what with Connor now?”

“It’s…” Flynn visibly weighs his words. “Complicated.”

“Yeah. Could have guessed that.”

There is another pause as all of them clearly decide if they can possibly take a risk trusting each other. Rufus doesn’t seem like he has nefarious intention, though who knows, he could be a hardened hitman for exactly that reason. Lucy still doesn’t think so, though, and after another moment, Flynn apparently arrives at the same conclusion. He jerks his head at Rufus. “Come on. I think we should talk.”

That is how, five minutes later, they find themselves shut up in their hotel suite, the envelope lying on the table between them but not opened, as Rufus comes out with his weird story about being ambushed by a pseudo-doppelganger of Flynn’s at a café in downtown Budapest this morning. Flynn and Lucy both sit up very straight when the name “Rittenhouse” enters the conversation, and when Rufus relates Connor Mason’s very odd reaction at being confronted with it, they frown at each other even more. At last, Flynn says, “So Rittenhouse and Mason Industries are working together? What the hell _are_ they?”

“Connor wasn’t talking. He was spooked.” Rufus shifts his weight, as if by coming into a hotel room with two strangers keen for information, he might be setting himself up for a cyanide capsule in the artisan spring water. “Mr. X also said that Connor had paid some company to get a briefcase from a guy – some Russian name, I think. Started with K. I don’t remember it. I knew he was waiting for a missing delivery, but I didn’t know what.”

“Khodzhayev?” Flynn says sharply. “Dr. Khodzhayev?”

“Yeah, that was it.” Rufus snaps his fingers, then stops. “Wait. How did you know that?”

“Because I’m the guy who was hired to get it,” Flynn says, even more grimly. “I picked it up in Uzbekistan. Not long after that, it went missing in very mysterious circumstances in Bangladesh, and we’ve been trying to work out what the fuck happened ever since.”

“Jesus.” Rufus blows out a jagged breath, as if only now realizing what a snakepit he has inadvertently stepped in. He is also, justifiably, starting to look spooked. “Look, I’m a software engineer, not James Bond. I don’t know anything about this, and I wouldn’t have gotten involved at all if your creepy brother hadn’t ambushed me.”

“He’s not my brother,” Flynn says edgily. “I don’t know who he is.”

There’s a long pause as they all reflexively look at the windows, as if Mr. X might have climbed ten stories like Spiderman and be hanging upside down, waiting to shout boo. Everyone tries to work out how to proceed in the acquaintance from here. It’s clear that they all know something about what might be happening, but Lucy would prefer to avoid putting extra people in danger if she can help it. It feels like this would probably be Rufus’s desire as well, since unless he’s a really good liar, he is genuinely in the dark about this and might constitute an obvious target to be permanently silenced. Then Rufus says, “So, should we open the envelope, or is that clearly a thing that stupid people in a horror movie would do, right before they mysteriously bit it?”

Lucy snorts – she likes this guy, despite herself. “It’s here. _Someone_ told us to get it. We have to figure out what’s going on. So F – Matthew?”

“I suppose.” He considers it a moment longer, then reaches for it. “I’ll do it.”

Lucy and Rufus watch tensely as Flynn unwinds the thread, breaks the several layers of tape, and slits the envelope open on the end, carefully checking for anything inside, before he removes a sheaf of papers. They are an eclectic mix: scribbled notes, a stack of mathematical equations, a few pages written in what appears to be Russian, and a post-it note on top. At it, Flynn’s face does something strange, as he peels it off and stares at it. The note itself is short and cryptic – _facsimile of K. briefcase contents, please review and destroy –_ but that doesn’t appear to be what’s startled him. At last, he says only, “That’s my handwriting.”

“Facsimile of K. briefcase contents?” Lucy looks down at the pages, alarmed to think that they might be holding a copy of some of the most sought-out information in the world. “And he – someone – wants us to read it and burn it?”

“That might not be a bad idea.” Flynn speaks absently, still staring at the note with a shaken look on his face. “We’ve already seen that someone out there – Rittenhouse, it looks like – is more than happy to kill for it. But how the hell – if this is a copy, who has the real set? Why would they – _why_ would they give it to us?”

“They wanted us to know why there’s so much weird shit going on?” Rufus clearly brings an element of the refreshingly straightforward to the bafflingly bizarre. He reaches for the stack of equations, then snatches his hand away as Flynn gives him a don’t-touch-that-you-idiot look. “You said that you picked up the briefcase, so does this look familiar?”

“I didn’t open it,” Flynn says impatiently. “I never saw what was inside. This Mr. X that you talked about – did he give you some way to contact him?”

“Yeah, actually.” Rufus digs in his jacket and comes up with a crumpled business card. “Look familiar at all?”

Flynn looks at it, and his frown deepens. “That’s one of my burner numbers,” he says, sounding as if he really hoped it wasn’t. “But I don’t have the phone it’s connected to, I didn’t bring it. It’s back at my – ” He sees Rufus listening, remembers (for once) that they’re supposed to be married, and corrects himself almost seamlessly – “our house.”

“So clearly someone stole your identity?” Lucy thinks that’s where this seems to be pointing. “That would at least explain why your bosses thought it was you who took the briefcase. Disguised themselves pretty damn convincingly as you, got to Jessica somehow, and hacked or otherwise finagled access to your phone numbers and voice recordings? It would be a clever way to throw everyone off the scent, and get you into even more trouble.”

“Even _more_ trouble?” Rufus looks leery. “How much were we talking about to start with?”

“A lot,” Flynn informs him bluntly. “Goes without saying you should not be talking about this to anyone, possibly not even Connor. If you look at these papers, you become part of the ongoing effort, and you can’t just go on your merry way and forget you ever saw us. Unless you’re ready to do that, you don’t look.”

“And if I don’t agree and I already know this much?” Rufus gives him the fish-eye. “Since you literally have a gun in your pocket right now, you’re going to just – ?”

“I assume there are easier ways of making sure you wouldn’t talk.” Flynn folds his arms, as they continue to stare at each other and Lucy gives him a _Honey_ look. “Aren’t there?”

There are a few moments of crackling tension, until Rufus glances away. “Unless you’re up to speed on your advanced theoretical mathematics and quantum computing mechanics, they’re probably not going to make much sense. Which you might be, I don’t know. Otherwise, you’ll need my help. I figure it’s a terrible idea to get involved with you two, but now I already am, so…” He trails off, then shrugs. “Fine. If there’s an NDA, I’ll sign it. Just don’t make me do anything illegal and get fired. Or arrested.”

“I’ll take care of any illegal stuff,” Flynn says, in the tone of a man who considers this a paltry objection to the current situation. “Get on it.”

Rufus looks as if this is the last chance he has to bail out, but after a moment, he sighs deeply, pretends to cross his heart, and reaches for the papers. He starts to work through them in more-or-less silence, aside from frowning, taking out a pencil to scribble through calculations of his own, and occasionally muttering, “okay, what the hell?” Flynn and Lucy watch him, not sure how to most productively occupy themselves, until they exchange a look, get up, and step away, around the corner, so as not to distract him. Low-voiced, Flynn says, “Whoever was on the phone with you earlier left those papers. That person has Khodzhayev’s briefcase, or at least they did. We need to find some way to track them down immediately.”

“It sounds like some kind of extremely dangerous con artist.” Lucy can’t help herself from reaching out to put her hands on Flynn’s chest, a half-protective gesture. “What if they just want us to think they have it? They clearly know a lot about you – as we’ve said, you’ve been their target all along. They’ve infiltrated all your arrangements and your identities and – Garcia, just… we need to be careful, all right? Of all of us, you could be in the most danger.”

He looks down at her with a crooked smile, then at her hands fisting in his shirt, as if he rather likes this newfound concern for his safety. Impossible man. He raises his own hand to smooth her hair out of her face, cupping her chin, and for an instant she thinks he might actually kiss her. He doesn’t, of course, but at least he doesn’t brusquely push her off, and they remain there, her body swayed against his, like a small boat moored to a large, steady pier. Neither of them say anything. Then Lucy murmurs, “So what next, then?”

“If our new friend can make any sense of those papers, it’s possible we can guess why this Rittenhouse might want the briefcase.” Flynn slides one arm around her waist, almost unconsciously, his hand spreading on the small of her back. “If that’s actually accurate in any way to what was in there, as I have my doubts. Then I suppose we have to prevent Connor Mason from getting killed. And find your sister. And work out what’s going on with Iris. I still don’t like that. I wish she’d actually call me back.”

“Something like that, yes.” Lucy’s hands travel upward to land around his neck, which is just pleasingly far enough above hers that she has to rise slightly on her toes. It strikes her that this is a new way to touch each other, which before has been either zero or a hundred, but has encountered noted difficulty at settling into a happy medium. She should definitely not point that out, as he may once more spook and run, but she can’t help a small sigh, arching her back into his fingers as he traces them up her spine. “So – so do we know which one we need to get to first?”

“Mmm.” Flynn rests his chin on her head, staring off into the distance. His hand remains on her back, thumb toying with the hem of her shirt. For half a poignant moment, Lucy can almost feel his own exhaustion, passing into her by some sort of osmosis – the weight that has been on him this whole time, racing around the world and trying to find a murderous corporate cabal, retrieve some extremely dangerous rogue item, keep her safe, and worry about his teenage daughter all at once. Flynn is a pain in the ass, to put it mildly, but his heart seems to be in the right place. Lucy has gotten kind of attached to the violent, stubborn knucklehead, despite herself. Not just sexually, although there is that (wanting to, at least, since the main event remains to ever be fulfilled) but just in that she doesn’t quite want to go back to whatever her life was, before she met him. Obviously, fewer assassination attempts and long-haul flights and the rest of this lunacy would be aces, but somehow, despite everything, she wants Garcia Flynn himself to stick around.

They remain there in each other’s arms for several moments longer, not saying anything, until a startled sound from Rufus makes them look up. Flynn lets go of Lucy – a bit reluctantly, it seems like – and steps back around the corner. “What?”

“Whatever your weird friend and/or friends are messing with…” Rufus scowls at the papers. “It’s _really_ off the ranch. Assuming that I did these equations correctly, but… yeah.”

“Well, your boss was the one who wanted it, I hope you’d have a clue,” Flynn says acidly. “What are we talking about here?”

Rufus takes a please-don’t-shoot-the-messenger breath and sits back. “Time travel.”

There’s a very (understandably) long pause. Then Flynn says, “What?”

“Time travel,” Rufus repeats doggedly. “At least, I think that’s what they’re going for here. It’s all really weird theoretical math, I practically had to reinvent all the symbols for what I needed to write down, but it… works out.”

“Connor Mason wanted information on _time travel?”_ Flynn glances sidelong at Lucy, as if to make sure she’s also hearing this. “Well, Ershut Khodzhayev does work at some top-secret Russian particle physics lab, I knew any research of his had to be dangerous, but – ”

“You still got it from him,” Rufus points out. “And were going to deliver it to whoever paid for it, if it hadn’t been intercepted. So this would just be like… the stuff that scientists are doing already, right? Displacing quarks, low-level atoms, messing with the Large Hadron Collider? I mean… not actual, physical _time travel._ For, you know. People.”

“You’re the egghead here, you figure it out.” Flynn takes half a step back toward Lucy, as if protecting her from some intangible threat conjured by the words. “That would definitely be a capability that people would kill for, but – we think these Rittenhouse people want it?”

“Keep your voice down.” Flynn glances edgily at the air vent, in case Tom Cruise is in there on wires and might parasail out of the ceiling. “This sounds insane. Yes, maybe that’s what they thought they were paying for, but what would Connor Mason be doing with it?”

“Keeping it out of their hands? He did say he and Rittenhouse had some kind of falling out.” Rufus looks back down at his pages of scribbled notes, as if to be sure that science has not betrayed him. “If Connor was working for them and then changed his mind at the last instant, he couldn’t call off the briefcase retrieval, it would be completely suspicious and they’d know something was up. Better to have it go through, you get it, deliver it to him, and then he can make it discreetly disappear or claim the equations were bust or whatever else. But then someone _else_ took it, and – ”

“And we don’t know who they are or how _they_ got it or why they know so much about Matthew,” Lucy finishes. They might have to let Rufus in on the alias sooner or later, but not just this minute. “They were in Budapest recently enough to leave us a copy of the briefcase contents, they already made contact with Rufus and told him to ask Mason about Rittenhouse, and…” She looks at Flynn. “Do you think that was also the person who texted you in Paris, and then who called me? It’s been the same individual all along, who stole the briefcase from Jessica and has been trying to tell us something, but _who?_ And _what?”_

“Don’t look at me.” Even the formidable Garcia Flynn, mercenary and murderer par excellence, appears a little rattled. This is quickly getting, as Rufus said, very off the ranch. Not just a case of a missing item or a botched delivery, though clearly NBB isn’t going to be a fan of that, but involving much larger and far more disturbing questions about who was supposed to get it and why, and what they meant to do next. The idea of time travel is an abstract one to Lucy, some far-fetched sci-fi supervillainy that a mad scientist has cooked up in a remote clifftop laboratory while cackling maniacally, but if it’s in any part true, it’s clear that Rittenhouse – whoever they are – should not have their hands on it. Even if they can’t get that part working, they plainly have plenty of other nefarious resources and motives, and they must be the ones killing their way through Flynn’s clients in hopes of getting the briefcase back. Which, once again and utterly inexplicably, comes down to Flynn himself. Lucy _knows_ she heard his voice on the other end of the phone, while he was still standing in the hotel room with her. According to everything she knows about the world, that’s not possible.

There is another fraught pause as everyone tries to think of something to say that doesn’t sound insane. Rufus rubs both hands over his face, Lucy wonders if they should apologize or save their breath since it’s only going to get worse, and Flynn paces back and forth like a stalking cat. Then, startling everyone very badly, there is a knock on the door.

Flynn whips around, snatches out his gun, and hisses at Lucy and Rufus to duck behind the bed. This isn’t much cover, but they do as ordered, even as Lucy tensely raises herself just far enough to peer over the quilt. Keeping out of a direct line of fire, Flynn advances on the door and looks through the peephole. Whatever he sees makes him stare, look relieved and shocked all at once, and jerk it open.

“Hi, Dad?” Iris Flynn looks travel-worn, tired, rumpled, cold, wet, and confused, and is clinging to a messenger bag with one hand and her friend Olivia’s hand with the other. “This is where you said to meet, right?”

Flynn’s jaw drops, as does the gun. Then he grabs her arm and practically hauls her across the threshold, as the girls look even more flabbergasted. Flynn slams the door behind Iris and Olivia, then – startling both of them, as Lucy gets the sense that they’re not exactly the most physically affectionate family at times – hugs the breath out of his daughter, kisses her forehead, hugs her again, then shakes her. “Why the hell didn’t you call me back?”

“What do you mean, why didn’t I call you?” Iris is clearly also deeply relieved to see her father, but glares at him in response to this question. “Why didn’t you tell me about Jessica?”

“Jess – ?”

“Yes.” Iris folds her arms. She hasn’t yet noticed that her history professor and a random tech nerd are also in the room with them, and her dark eyes snap with anger. “All that about her dragging me off to Chennai, and the mess there, and then you called her, and whatever trade-off you organized – this _is_ where you told me to go! Room 406, New York Palace Hotel, in Budapest!”

“I did?” Flynn says weakly. “Iris – what are you talk – what in Chenn – _what?”_

Olivia takes several steps out of the blast zone, which Lucy thinks looks to be a wise idea, as both Flynns – or at least Iris, as Garcia himself is still too stunned to be angry – are about to go off with a bang. “I texted you several times,” Flynn manages. “I called you. You said you were fine, your battery died, you – ”

“I never sent that text.” Iris is getting even more upset by his nonsensical explanations. “Jessica Logan – a colleague of yours, apparently – she turned up in Auckland and kidnapped me and Olivia. Took us to Chennai to look for info on your work, then you called her and apparently proposed a trade. You’d give her whatever it was she wanted, if she released us. Jessica finally agreed to let us go, so we flew here, and – ”

“Jesus Christ.” Flynn rubs both hands over his face, still looking as if a brick wall has fallen on his head. “Iris, I – I didn’t do any of that. I’m – I thought something might be wrong, but I don’t – I’m glad you’re safe, but – ”

“She _kidnapped_ us!” Iris’s voice rises close to a shout. “And you – if you didn’t do it, who did? What are you doing here, Dad? Who _are_ you? Is your name even Garcia Flynn? Am I what, some foster kid placed in a sick social experiment, or – ”

Flynn cringes, even as Rufus glances at Lucy with a you-said-his-name-was-Matthew look. It’s clearly horrendously awkward for father and daughter to have witnesses to this personal and explosive confrontation, and Flynn, never adept with emotions or talking about them in the best of times, reaches out a hand, a clumsy peace offering. “Iris – sweetheart – ”

Iris wrenches away, causing him to look as if he’s been stabbed, and backs up, holding up both hands. “Don’t,” she says, breathing hard. “Don’t lie to me again.”

“I’m your father,” Flynn says, very quietly. “Of course I am. I just – I don’t – I don’t know what happened here, and Iris – if I had known, if I had any firm information at all, I would have come to find you, I would not have stopped. I would have torn the entire world apart to get to you. I’m grateful beyond words to whoever saved you, I didn’t stop worrying this whole time. I’m not lying to you. I just don’t understand.”

Iris eyes him up and down, shoulders hunched, arms crossed protectively over her chest, breathing hard through her nose. She looks very young and very upset, and Lucy wonders if she should say something, but this is clearly not a conversation that invites interruption. There’s another pause, and Flynn takes another step, but Iris retreats again. “Just,” she says, choked. “Just let me – I think I want to be alone.”

“I’ll go downstairs and get you a room next door,” Flynn says, still quietly, as if he can’t get enough breath to speak louder. “Olivia can stay with you. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Iris continues to regard him like he’s a stranger, like she’s never known him in her whole life, as her gaze finally lands on Lucy and she clearly can’t decide whether to be relieved or even more upset, as if everyone, _everyone_ might be in collusion on this grand deception. She sits down heavily on the nearest chair, the strength of anger running out of her, and Flynn looks at her again, anguished. But she tucks her chin into her chest and doesn’t move.

After another pause, Flynn nods. With as much dignity as he can, he crosses the room, glances back at Iris and Lucy, and thinks better of whatever he was about to say. Steps out, shuts the door behind him, and leaves.


	11. Chapter 11

**Budapest, Hungary**

**11:47 PM CEST**

Lucy doesn’t sleep. There’s too much swirling in her head to make that a remote possibility, and it’s hard to relax anyway when she’s expecting something else outlandish – another cryptic phone call from one of their apparent alternate selves, an attack from these Rittenhouse people, Flynn acting like a normal human being – to burst through the door at any minute. She tosses and turns restlessly on the cavernous bed with its pristine-white sheets, the lights of Budapest glowing faintly on the inside of the closed curtains, and listens to the distant hum of the air system. She still feels slightly squelchy, and her feet hurt from all this gadding about large foreign cities. It’s definitely past the point where the traveling has stopped being fun, and she’d prefer to go home, but that doesn’t look like an option.

Lucy flops onto her back and stares at the ceiling, trying to count sheep, but she doesn’t get past a dozen before her troubled thoughts wander back into their inescapable morass. God. _What_ is going on? Any time she’s ever thought she had a grasp on it, it slipped away, as elusive as quicksand. She’s obviously hugely relieved that Iris and Olivia are here and they’re safe, but it seems that they talked to the same Pseudo-Flynn that she did, whatever shadowy third party is running around just a step ahead of them, like being trapped in a real-life Escher house. Plus it seems that Iris was in fact kidnapped, however briefly, by Lucy’s ex-boyfriend’s wife, which is awkward even if she isn’t planning on mentioning that. Flynn knows, since she told him about Jessica in France, but when Jessica herself has played some increasingly obscure and sinister role in this total _nonsense –_

Lucy rolls over again, punching the pillow. She tries to convince herself that since Iris walked in from nowhere, there’s a possibility that Amy could do the same – that her kidnappers could shrug, decide that this has gotten too weird even for them, and nope out, leaving Amy to make her way back to freedom. That, however, is probably a little too much coincidence even for this. Where _is_ Flynn? Downstairs drinking his sorrows away in the hotel bar? He got Iris and Olivia a room next door, where the girls have huffily withdrawn to repair their misfortunes, and then, as usual, vanished. Lucy would very much like to strangle him.

(Or possibly not strangle him. Either way, it would be nice if he’d just knock this off. But, yes, of course, she asks the utterly impossible.)

She watches the glowing numbers on the clock tick away past midnight, feeling like Cinderella waiting for her carriage to turn back into a pumpkin. If anything, Lucy would hope that he has gone to talk to his daughter, since it’s clear there is a lot of unresolved and messy business there that needs to be sorted out. But there’s nothing from next door that sounds like the murmur of conversation, and Iris seems to feel, not without justification, that she needs space from her father, that she is no longer certain that she trusts anything he tells her or that he has her best interests at heart. As far as Lucy can tell, it looks like Iris thinks that Flynn knew all along that she had been taken by Jessica, but just couldn’t be arsed to get in contact with her, explain anything, sort it out, or save her. That’s not what happened, of course, but in the complete absence of any other rational explanation, it’s a hard impression to shake.

Maybe she could go talk to Rufus Carlin, Lucy thinks. Not that she has any idea what she’d say, and it would be awkward as hell to bomb in a stranger in the middle of the night for a heart-to-heart, but at least she could disguise it as being useful for the mystery. Rufus was the one who cracked the bogglingly complex equations in Khodzhayev’s notes and brought up the time travel hypothesis, he’s clearly a genius. (Or crazy, but he doesn’t seem like the crazy one.) If she did something else too, if she didn’t just lie here, if she was _better –_

Lucy catches herself, as that scolding voice in her brain, which sounds so much like Carol Preston’s disappointment in asking why she just isn’t applying herself, why she didn’t get a better grade on that paper (she got a 94%, it was a high school English project, but by Carol’s look, you’d think it was a D), can easily run away with her. Should she try to talk to Iris instead? No, that would be even weirder. She’s Iris’s teacher, not her parent, and she’s not going to do Flynn’s job for him or defend him when she doesn’t know half of the family dynamics going on there. Besides, Iris clearly considers her a co-conspirator to some degree, and as a teenager, you don’t want to think about your parents’ romantic life (that seems a wild overstatement, as Garcia Flynn is the least romantic person on the planet, but you know) in any capacity. Lucy isn’t going to position herself as “Dad’s girlfriend,” since she’s not. But maybe just to check on her? The girls were shaken. Maybe they shouldn’t feel that they’ve been hung out to dry again. Or do they just want to be alone?

Lucy listens carefully, but still doesn’t hear anything from next door, which seems to indicate that Iris and Olivia have probably gone to sleep. It’s late, and she doesn’t want to disturb them. Everyone is likely to have need of as much shut-eye as they can get, including her, but that still is very far away. Is there an all-night pharmacy anywhere nearby that sells sleeping pills, and can she be bothered to get up, get dressed, and venture out by herself in search of it? No, that definitely seems like a very bad idea. She can do this the usual way.

After a few minutes of careful deep breathing have calmed her somewhat, Lucy is just hopeful that she might drop under, when she hears a rustling at the door, instantly destroying all her hard-won progress. She sits bolt upright, tense and watchful, looking around for anything that she can use as a weapon. But then a key card clicks in the lock, it opens, and an extremely haggard-looking Flynn trudges through. His hair is wet from a renewed rainstorm, there are dark circles under his eyes, and he looks like he’s been out getting into God knows what kind of mischief. Despite her constant low-level irritation with him, Lucy feels a sharp and sudden sympathy. She knows that impulse, the conviction that if you just _do_ one more thing, you can fix the problem. Can’t stop trying, can’t stop fighting. If you do, you fail.

“Garcia.” Her voice is quiet in the dimness, but it makes him jump. “Where have you been?”

Flynn doesn’t answer immediately, shucking his grimy shoes and jacket and ducking into the bathroom to drape a towel over his head and rub his hair dry. Then he says, “Are the girls all right?”

“It sounds like they went to sleep a while ago. Which you would have known if you’d been here.” Lucy is gentle, but she isn’t letting him off the hook for this. “Did you have to run off, again, by yourself? With all this going on? There could be anyone out there. Literally.”

“I know. That was why I went back to the drop site and looked for anything, any clue that could tell me who left it there, and when.” Flynn blows out a ragged breath. “If it is, as we think, some kind of extremely skilled identity thief who’s posing as me, then we could be in even more trouble. Otherwise – ”

Lucy hesitates. She doesn’t want to broach the topic for the obvious reason that it sounds insane, but they’ve reached a point where they might have to consider it. “What if it _is_ you?”

Flynn turns his head sharply, startled. “What? How could that be possible?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy feels as if she’s stumbled onto just the thread of something larger and stranger and more frightening than she could possibly imagine, and she doesn’t know what will happen if she tugs it too hard – or if she can afford not to. “But Rufus said something about time travel. If that is real – don’t ask me how, I don’t know any of the details, how it would work – then maybe? Some version of you who traveled here from the future, or something like that? Trying to change things, or making sure that Rittenhouse never got the briefcase, or something like that?”

“That’s crazy,” Flynn says, but with not quite as much conviction as he seems to want. “That can’t be the answer.”

“Maybe.” Lucy pulls her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. “But Jessica, Rufus, Iris, and myself have talked to or encountered someone that we all think was you. Rufus’s Mr. X., whoever took the briefcase from Jessica in Bangladesh and arranged to free Iris, and whoever left that package for us… I’ve been thinking about it. I didn’t believe it at first either, but it seems a little far-fetched that we would all independently identify that man as you, if there was nothing to it. Impersonators could be good, but not _that_ good.”

Flynn opens his mouth and shuts it. He turns away, at a loss for words, then digs in his suitcase and removes his pajamas, vanishing into the bathroom to change. Lucy stares at the glowing crack of light under the door, as she hears water running and the hum of an electric shaver (she’s almost tempted to tell him to keep the stubble, but that would probably be useless). She’s a historian, an academic. She analyzes evidence for a living. She’s searched and searched for any other explanation, but at a certain point, Occam’s Razor has to come into play. And back in Paris, when they thought there was someone following them, but never saw who, only to be interrupted by the _Rittenhouse_ text that came from Flynn’s own number. They thought it was a mask, but what if it was in fact where it was from? Was that Future Flynn staying carefully out of sight, judging the moment he needed to send it (if so, it’s some impressive skill to cockblock yourself _twice_ at the same time)? Are they living in a timeline mined with quantum interference, and did something else already happen that was changed?

These are extremely disturbing questions, which Lucy is nowhere near enough of a physicist or conspiracy theorist to answer, and she thinks it’s better not to try. She lies back against the pillows, rubbing both hands over her face, until the bathroom light switches off, the door opens, and Flynn emerges. He’s in a white T-shirt and his pajama pants, and he looks at her awkwardly, as if to ask if she wants the entire king-sized bed to herself. He would probably sleep on the carpet without a second thought. He is ridiculous and neurotic that way.

Lucy considers, then sighs deeply. She has no expectation of it leading to anything else and is about ready to stop trying anyway, but the idiot man does not need to keep camping on the floor, no matter if he thinks he does or not. She rolls over and flips the covers back, as casually as possible. Maybe if she pretends she’s not here, it’ll help him.

Flynn hesitates, then crosses the floor in a few long strides and climbs in. The mattress sinks slightly under his weight, as Lucy can feel his heat, his nearness, and has to hold herself back from moving closer to it. He settles down on his back, hands folded on his chest like a tomb carving in an old cathedral, as she steals a glance over her shoulder. He looks as tired as she feels, if not more. He can’t have slept more than four hours a night or so for weeks.

There is a soft, quiet moment as they both lie there, not speaking, until Lucy sighs and rolls back over to face him. “So?” she asks. “Did you find anyone?”

“Of course not.” Flynn lets out a low, frustrated growl. “They covered their tracks well. I searched the area, checked if I could network into any local surveillance systems, but they were long gone. Stopped off on the way back to tell Connor Mason’s security team to keep an eye out, but they were on it, so I suppose Rufus mentioned that already. I thought about going to talk to Iris, but it’s late, and I… don’t know that she wants to see me anyway.”

“You need to do that eventually.” Lucy raises an eyebrow at him. “You know that.”

“Yes. I know.” Flynn doesn’t sound that thrilled about it, but more because he clearly feels that there’s nothing he can satisfactorily say, nothing he can explain, to make it up to Iris. Whether it was his fault or not, and no matter the fact that she’s now safe, the guilt for leaving her in danger, for apparently confirming all her worst fears, is clearly eating him alive. “I should have gone back to Auckland,” he says, half to himself. “I should have made more calls, when I couldn’t get in touch. I should have followed my instinct that something was wrong. I should have been with my daughter, not running after murderers.”

“You did your best,” Lucy says awkwardly. “You were trying to respect her independence and not hover too much. And if she knows about your job – ”

“She knows nothing about my job.” Flynn’s frustration and anger roughens his voice to a deep rasp. “I told her the briefest and most flattering version that I could, after almost seven years of letting her think it was just some occasional government thing. I’ve never told her what kind of man I really am or the things that I do on a daily basis, and now that’s blowing up in my face. It’s my fault, and I deserve it. I’ve been able to take care of her on a material basis, but as for the rest… I’ve failed her. I have. And I can’t get that back or make that right. Maybe it would have been better for her if Lorena – if one of us had to die, it should have been me. Lorena didn’t deserve that. Iris doesn’t either.”

Despite herself, Lucy winces at the raw agony in his voice, and can’t hold back from putting her hand on his chest, feeling the deep, slow thump of his heart. It’s entirely possible that Flynn will tense up or roll away or otherwise close off whatever tentative, contradictory, difficult connection exists between them, but instead he reaches up convulsively and grabs hold of her hand. His long, callused fingers close over hers, pressing into her palm, and he grips as tightly as if he’s trying to avoid being swept overboard in a storm. How long has it been, Lucy wonders, since he lay in bed with anyone, talking about anything, much less this? Since Matej Radić, the man he mentioned in Tangier? Does he not trust her to care about his problems, or is he just so utterly unused to sharing with anyone that it’s like breaking his own ribs open, tearing it out bit by bit? God, this man. He’s so frustrating and so shut off and so troublesome to deal with, but there is a great ocean below, and he is the one who drowns.

After a moment, Flynn lifts their clasped hands to his mouth, and kisses their entwined fingers. It’s simple and matter-of-fact, certainly not the most suggestive thing they’ve done by now, but the most genuine and apologetic, as if he knows that he’s a lot to manage and he’s grateful that she has. “Lucy,” he says huskily. “I – I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” She’s spent a lot of time being frustrated with his utter inability to use his words, and perhaps at another time she could push him for more, but Lucy is not innately cruel, and she knows that even that was a significant step for him. She reaches up with her other hand to push a dark lock of hair off his forehead. “It’s all right.”

He looks at her with almost abject gratitude, as if there is no way he could fathom her not getting up and running away from him, and Lucy shifts closer, tucking herself up against his side. Her head settles into the spot at the joint of his arm and shoulder, and her arm sprawls out over his hips. He is very tall and lean and solid, so it feels like cuddling a damn Renaissance statue, but she doesn’t mind. She wants to do something that will help him, rather than spooking him, but she lowers her head and presses her mouth against the side of his neck, his pulse thumping faintly against her lips. If he doesn’t want it, she’ll stop.

And yet, for once, Flynn’s reaction is not one of horror, freezing, bafflement, hesitance, or any of the other things that have generally obtained when matters proceed in this direction. He lifts a hand, dragging the rough pad of his thumb along her cheekbone, then cups her head, fingers threading through her hair. He shifts over, half atop her, and lowers his head warily, as if not sure he’s doing this correctly. Then, as she tilts her chin back and opens her mouth, he sets his gently onto hers.

The kiss is quiet at first, understated, something genuinely comforting rather than anything else. Flynn muses at her lower lip, pulling it between his teeth, but doesn’t bite, just explores. Then Lucy lets out a faint whimper through her nose, shifts him fully over on top of her as he lands between her legs, and wraps her arms around his neck. The kiss this time has nothing innocent or calm about it. It’s hot, it’s hungry, and it does not mean to be denied.

Flynn slides a hand beneath her head, lifting her closer to him, as they kiss wet and open-mouthed, fierce and deep, both of them taking turns to explore the other. They roll over again (good thing there’s plenty of room in this bed) as Lucy lands on top of him, both of them making wordless, frantic noises of need, as he kisses her like he did that night in Paris, like she is the very fabric and fiber of his existence, the air he breathes. Lucy wonders absurdly if their goddamn phones are turned off this time, since that has tended to be a sticking point, but she might not notice right now. God. _God._

She drags her hips up on him, as Flynn shifts their position enough to free one of his hands. After he has met her eyes in a questioning way and Lucy gives a breathless nod, granting him permission, he slides it down her stomach to the waistband of her pajamas, then lower. She bites her lip on a gasp as he finds her, easing down into her warm wetness, as his thumb drags over her clit. She bucks up into his hand, he murmurs something that sounds like “hold still,” and eases the tip of one finger into her, then two. He is careful about penetrating her, watching her eyes to be sure that she is enjoying it, as he finally has both fingers inside her to the fork of his hand. He curls them up, pressing on her as he works her clit with his thumb, and Lucy almost sees double.

Flynn is deliberate and methodical about his work, just as one might imagine he would be, as he continues to stroke her inside and out with soft, slick movements. Lucy whines, needing more friction, and he stills her with his free hand on her waist. He touches her gently and respectfully, but without that exaggerated caution as if she might wilt or shatter. He knows she’s strong and he knows – at least Lucy damn well hopes at this point – that she wants him. He is not going to treat her like a porcelain doll.

That thought sends a delicious shudder run through her, and she hitches herself up on his hand, as they change position again and Flynn pulls her into his lap, still working between her thighs. Then he withdraws his fingers, leaving Lucy flushed and wet and quivering but not entirely satisfied, and looks at her again. She can sense that he’s asking if that was enough, if it was good, and if so, what next.

There are a number of potential answers to that question, and Lucy is currently attempting to consider all of them. His hand felt very good and it’s quite possible that his mouth would feel even better, and while she is deliberating, she pulls him back in for another rough kiss. His hands grip hold of her upper arms, and as she grinds against him, making both of them gasp, it occurs to her that they _could_ just skip preliminaries and finally get to the goddamn main event. They have been dancing around it long enough, and she wants to be stretched, filled, fucked, wants to know what the rest of him feels like inside her. Besides. Sex is supposed to help you sleep. Win-win, right?

For his part, Flynn – for once – doesn’t seem like he’s going to suddenly come to his senses and stop. Still, much as she wants it, Lucy doesn’t want to interpret silence as passive consent, then realize later that he just did it for her sake and wished they didn’t. “Garcia,” she manages, her mouth against his, in the middle of another kiss. “Do you want. . .?”

He looks at her wryly, as if to say that he can understand why she would ask this question, especially at other times, but that his interest is, at the moment, not in doubt. Still, he likewise knows that they do need to be clear about this, and he kisses her again, tongue teasing at hers. Then he says hoarsely, “We don’t have any protection.”

“Depo-Provera.” It felt a little optimistic, given as Lucy doesn’t have so much as a friend with benefits just now, but she thought it was better to be prepared, in case she ever did meet someone and wanted to attempt a one-night stand. “I did the shot. About a month ago.”

She can’t tell if Flynn was hoping that would prove an insurmountable obstacle or not, but at least he doesn’t pull away. He looks her up and down, eyes dark with need, but still hesitant. Almost shyly, he says, “I’m really out of practice.”

“It’s all right.” Lucy laughs shakily. “It’s not like I’ve had a lot going on either.”

They look at each other, uncertain and tentative and tender, as he reaches out again to cup her face in his hands, bringing their foreheads to touch. They share breath for several moments, then turn their heads and kiss. It’s sweet and slow, but it is the last thing from innocent, and there is a clear deliberation to it, settled and intent. Lucy slides up into his lap again, and Flynn hooks his hands beneath her thighs. They kiss until they feel good and ready to stop. Then Flynn nudges her to lift her arms, peels her T-shirt off, and runs his hands up the lines of her slender torso. Cups the fullness of her breasts, circles the nipples with his thumbs until they pebble to a stiff peak, then leans forward and kisses between them, worshiping.

Lucy gasps, fingers sliding into his hair, holding his head close as his hands slide up her back, pressing her into his mouth. Clearly, he has decided that if they are doing this, they are doing it right, and she certainly is not about to complain. When he lifts his head, she grabs at his shirt in turn and tugs it insistently off. Flynn looks _really_ good without it, frankly, and Lucy runs both hands over his pecs, then down the rough-cut muscles of his abs and sides. Their arms wrap around each other, drawing them closer, closer still. He is so strong that it feels like the world could stop spinning, that he could hold her motionless at this one center point, and let it race on by without them. She is protected, engulfed, steadied. Safe.

After a moment more, Flynn reaches down, slides his hands under the waistband of her pajama pants, and gets them the rest of the way off. Given how he has already touched her, it’s hardly a shock, but Lucy still feels an instinctive shyness about being completely naked with someone new, and he waits before he touches her again, hands smoothing on her thighs, gooseflesh shivering across her entire body. There is some strange synergy between them, some utter, unspeakable magnetism. _There,_ her soul whispers to its other half. _There you are._

Flynn pulls her legs gently apart, as Lucy returns the favor in stripping him down to his skin. He kicks the pajamas off his legs and onto the floor, and she can sense the same brief reticence in him – not from a lack of wanting, but from wanting too much. He looks at her with a tremor in his throat, wets his lips, and half turns away. Then she catches his chin in her hand, turns him back, and takes hold of his hands. Lifts them to her sides, and encourages him closer, on top of her, as she slides down beneath him. Lucy very much enjoys being in control in this sort of thing, but right now, she wants something different.

She reaches for him, and takes hold of him, as Flynn looks as if he’s struggling not to let his eyes roll back in his head. He is stiff and hot and silky in her hand, and Lucy strokes her thumb slowly down the shaft, then circles the tip. She uses her other hand to spread herself, moves him to her entrance, and – after their eyes have met one last time, they both are clear and certain that this is what they mean – eases him an inch or two inside.

Flynn makes a strangled noise, cords standing out on his neck, as it clearly takes every drop of his self-control to not just shove inside and have her all at once. He braces his weight on his elbows, sliding up slowly on her, as Lucy can feel him parting her with intense, deliberate thoroughness. He moves his hips convulsively to straighten out the fit, and she digs her heels into the mattress, arching her back up into him. He makes a guttural sound as he slides deeper, finding his way into her for the first time. There is some of the usual sorting out of what goes where, and the foot of height difference means that her face is in his shoulder, but they get it under control. Lucy utters a choked sound, wraps her legs around his straining thighs, and pulls him all the way into her. He beats inside her like a heart.

They lie there, entangled, gasping, as they both need a moment to adjust to it, the intimacy and the possession and the heat. Flynn reaches out for her hand, and as they are both still wearing their (fake) wedding rings, the metal gives a small, bright _ching_ that strikes a spark, metaphorical if not literal. Their fingers twist, and he pushes it over her head, kissing her neck in an almost-blind fit of need, as Lucy sighs and gasps and wraps her other arm around his back. She is moving already, instinctively, bucking up into him, and he meets her in turn with a deep, decisive thrust that she feels to the back of her spine. The only word for that, rather literally, is _fuck._

Flynn rolls his hips, taking her with a steady, insistent rhythm like the falling rain, as Lucy moves her hand down the length of his spine, to the small of his back, to his (very fine, she will have you know) ass, the bunching muscles of his thighs. Their other hands remain entangled, pulling and straining at each other, as he rubs himself thoroughly against her, sliding in and out and making her catch a gulp in her throat every time he sheathes himself again. Lucy whimpers as he hits a deep sweet spot that makes her see stars, and her fingernails claw at his back. Her head falls back against the pillows, her mouth open, as her chest heaves in short, useless flutters and cannot get enough air. The whole world has come unpinned. She wants nothing more than to let herself be swept away.

Their pace begins to increase, as she locks her ankles behind Flynn’s legs and gets her hand free, wrapping her arms around his neck. They roll over in the tousled bedclothes, Lucy on all fours above him as he fucks up into her with short, sharp little strokes, and this new position also offers more opportunity for him to finger her clit. He says he’s out of practice, and she has no reason to doubt it, but even if so, he’s proving to be better at this than almost all the guys she slept with in college. It’s amazing what a little maturity and concern for your partner’s pleasure can do for you. And besides. Like riding a bike, right?

Lucy slides forward, knees skidding in the bunching sheets, pressing her hips down hard onto him as he rests a hand on the small of her back, making sure she is getting the benefit of each of his thrusts. He grunts, biting at her shoulder, as she settles at full length atop him, their bodies still rising and writhing where they are joined, as Lucy sighs and then shivers and almost screams, biting her tongue just in time. “Garcia,” she manages. “Garcia, yes. There. Yes. Yes. There. Yes.”

Flynn gets a self-satisfied look, which would be more annoying if it wasn’t so obnoxiously sweet, and kisses at the side of her mouth. Then he gets his arms around her again, they both gulp and swear as he ruts into her with an unraveling, consuming heat and strength, and the world swiftly begins to come unstitched. Lucy’s toes clench, her eyelashes flutter, she shoves and rocks and drags herself on him, and feels the heat like a spreading bonfire in her chest, enveloping her in the sweetness of release. He doesn’t last much longer, as she spasms around him and pulls him with her, and they lose themselves completely. For what seems a downright eternal moment, there is nothing but their gasping.

At last, slowly, Flynn comes to himself, nudging at her hip to slip out of her as he softens, and Lucy moans at even this light pressure on exquisitely sensitive tissues. She remains where she is atop him anyway, until he finally lifts her off, gets up, and goes to get another towel from the bathroom. He returns to tidy them up, throws it in the hamper, and glances at her as if expecting her to rate him (“extremely handsome, excellent lay, terrible personality, three stars.”) He seems hesitant, hopeful, cautious and curious all at once. “Ah – ” He clears his throat, then stops. “Was that – I don’t think you hated it?”

Lucy laughs despite herself, draping her arms around his neck and snuggling closer. “Did I really look like I hated it? I don’t think even you are _that_ out of practice.”

“Well, I didn’t think so.” Flynn may actually blush, but it’s hard to tell in the darkness. “I just – I wanted to check.”

Lucy giggles, as she still can’t understand how this terrifying murder machine of a man can be a soft dorky idiot when it comes to this, but she isn’t complaining. It’s a vast improvement on the mental short-circuits and running away that have otherwise characterized his conduct in this arena, and she’s feeling like that went well enough that there might be a chance for a repeat. Probably not right now, since the sleepiness is finally starting to set in, and it’s the wee hours by now. She can’t regret the way she spent them, but they will have to get up and attend to more nonsense tomorrow, and it might be good to do that on at least a little rest.

They don’t bother to get dressed again, though they do straighten out the twisted covers and sheets. Lucy goes to the bathroom, and when she returns, Flynn glances at her as if to ascertain if she’s interested in cuddling. She bites a grin, then crawls back in and tucks herself against his chest, head under his chin. He wraps his arms around her and holds her without saying anything, which is also a nice change, and Lucy almost dozes off altogether. Then he murmurs, “I’m going to find your sister.”

“Mmm?” Lucy can’t quite manage to open her eyes, as the waves of drowsiness are swiftly pulling her under. “You will?”

“Yes,” Flynn says decisively. “I don’t know if I can fix everything, but I’m going to do that. I’m going to find her. Then we can  work out the rest.”

Lucy doesn’t answer, partly because she isn’t sure she can. She nestles up into him and holds on, and for once, does not feel frustrated or thwarted or pushed away. She is sure she will have to remember to be irritated at him for something later, but not now, not here, not for once. She sighs again, and finally, _finally,_ sleeps.

She wakes up some indeterminate time later, when the light in the room has turned to pale morning glow and she can smell coffee, which makes her lift her head and look up groggily. The warm space in the bed beside her is empty, and she makes a small sound of deprivation, but then she glances over and sees Flynn – now dressed, albeit in his pajamas – carrying over two cups from the percolator. He holds hers out. “Black?”

“Drop of milk, one sugar.” Lucy sits up sleepily, touched at the idea that of course he decides to make her breakfast (or at least coffee), the night after they finally slept together. He takes her cup off to add the requested modifications, then hands it back, perching on the end of the bed with his as she sips. They look at each other shyly, then away, until she clears her throat. “Uh, good morning?”

“Good morning,” Flynn agrees diplomatically, though a muscle twitches in his cheek. “Sleep well?”

“Pretty well, yes.” Lucy coughs, feeling her cheeks heat, as he steals a look at her and then away, but does not succeed in hiding his downright goony smile. It suits him, having actual hearts in place of eyes. It’s a _very_ nice change from nonsense.

Lucy is still not wearing anything, and she can tell that there is a certain heat in the way their eyes meet, the way he is (bless his heart) valiantly striving not to stare too much at where the covers have fallen around her breasts. Her hair is tousled, her lips are bruised, there’s definitely a mark on her shoulder, and she knows she looks well-laid (and the people said that it was about damn time). But if they don’t want to get immediately pegged for it, she should get up and take a shower. If they are finding Amy, and everything else on the agenda, they should get started. And yet this. . . this is very nice.

Lucy considers, then sips the rest of her coffee, about to put the empty mug on the bedside table, then drag herself regretfully out of bed and into the shower. That, however, is when there’s a quick knock and a key card clicks, as Flynn’s head swings around with a look of total horror. The door opens, and Iris’s voice says from the room hall, “Dad?”

Flynn can be seen visibly and utterly regretting every choice he has ever made in his life, unable to answer her or do anything whatsoever aside from panic. Apparently he, quite sensibly, asked for the keys to work on both rooms, in case something else happened during the night, or there was another emergency, or she needed to reach him, or so on. But that of course also allows for the chance – well, now actual event – of this. Lucy tries to answer, but finds that her tongue has also stuck itself to the roof of her mouth. She’s naked, she can’t just jump out of bed, and she snatches the covers up as if to conceal this fact, just as Iris steps into sight. At that moment, therefore, the younger Flynn sees her father sitting on the bed looking like he’s about to be guillotined, clutching a cup of coffee and mentally overloading, with her history professor in said bed in a not-explicit but still extremely obvious state of total undress. Iris is not an idiot. She can clearly see what just happened here.

There is an absolutely hideous pause. Iris’s mouth opens, though she doesn’t manage to get anywhere near actual words. She can be observed, like her father, wishing fervently for a small localized black hole to open up and gulp her off the face of the planet. Then Flynn, accurately but not at all helpfully, says, “Oh. Oh, _hell.”_


	12. Chapter 12

**Budapest, Hungary**

**8:44 AM CEST**

In his career as a single father to date, Garcia Flynn has faced plenty of what might be termed delicate situations. He agonized for days over whether he should tell Iris that he had put a box of pads under the sink, or just let her discover them. He bought a book about puberty for teenage girls, casually left it lying around, and devoutly prayed that she would not ask him any other questions (she didn’t). Maybe she had a friend’s mom who she could feel more comfortable asking about girl stuff, or a counselor at school. But he did have to give the birds-and-bees talk when she was thirteen, an excruciating experience for all concerned, and when she was sixteen and seeing a boy at school, he struggled to think of any way to organically bring up the importance of safe sex. Not that Iris was in fact sleeping with the kid, but Flynn was endeavoring to strike the balance between reasonable and protective parenting – don't completely smother them, let them know they can talk to you, but set firm boundaries and healthy expectations. He thinks sixteen is too young to do that anyway, but he knows it happens. Had to talk about trying alcohol at parties, about not getting into a car with anyone who’s drunk, taking care around older guys, all the other stuff. It always felt more than a little hypocritical, giving her all these cliché safety tips while he might be out shooting someone in another shadowy mercenary job God knows where, but he had to try.

Absolutely nothing, however, compares on the mortification scale to this. Iris stands there, still frozen in her tracks and clearly wishing she could scour this mental image from her brain, as she looks at Lucy in the bed, at her father, back at Lucy, and then once more at Flynn. It is altogether obvious what has been going on in here – the bite mark on Lucy’s bare shoulder is clearly visible, and as Iris’s eyes flick to it, Flynn experiences a fond hope that he will wink out of existence on the spot. He does not. There are another few moments of total silence. Then Iris says, “So, I’m… clearly interrup… that is, I’ll… just… come back later.”

With that, she starts backing up as if trying to flee a burning barn, for which Flynn cannot blame her in the least. Nonetheless, he finds himself rising half to his feet. “Iris – ”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She flings him a scathing look. “Glad to know you’ve been having a good time. I hope I’m not getting in the way of that or anything. Have fun.”

She whirls around, marches back down the hall, and the room door opens, then slams shut. Flynn can hear her returning next door, but he can’t make out what, if anything, she’s saying to Olivia. He cringes, staring after his daughter, with the doubtless accurate sense that the trouble he is in has just doubled. Iris clearly already thinks that he callously hung her out to dry, and now it looks like he’s being a cad and seducing her history professor for the apparent hell of it. That, of course, is also not what happened, but Flynn is aware that for Iris, this all does look as if he is a completely different man than she has always thought. That he could be anyone. _Who are you? Is your name even Garcia Flynn?_ She’s sick of lies, and justifiably so. He can’t tell her another one. But what the _hell_ does he say instead?

“Well,” Lucy says, very awkwardly, and Flynn jumps. “That… well. That happened. Do you think you should go talk to her?”

“I should, yes.” Flynn remains where he is. “But first I should… get dressed.”

Since it feels like something he can do and which will further dispel any unwanted associations in Iris’s mind, Flynn grabs his clothes, scampers into the bathroom, and runs a quick and bracing shower. He discovers that his hands are trembling, and not just from the cold, as he grabs the soap and vigorously scrubs. Jesus Christ. That finally happens – he’s not an idiot, he knows it was in the offing for a while, probably would have happened much sooner if he could get out of his own goddamn way for three seconds – and then they’re instantly discovered, forcing him to actually face this and try to define it. He does not want to tell his daughter that Lucy is just a one-night stand, since he knows already that whatever she is, it’s not that. Nor can he say that they’re dating, because they’re not doing that either, and he doesn’t think “fake wife to help solve an international criminal case that I may have inadvertently started” is going to be very impressive. What does Iris even want to hear? How can anything make this better? That’s not even getting into everything else that has been hinted at. Flynn has seen plenty of weird things, but this might take the biscuit.

Flynn inhales a few pained breaths, since it feels as if his anxiety is strangling his chest, rinses his face once more, then cranks the water off. He steps out, towels off, and gets dressed, so inattentively that it takes him a while to notice he’s trying to put his jeans on backward. Well, that’s just great. He turns them the correct way about, puts them on properly, and hauls on a shirt, then stares at himself in the mirror to see if he still looks too much like a night of scandalous passion. He doesn’t. He mainly looks alarmed. This is… not inaccurate.

With one more muttered curse, Flynn tugs a comb through his damp hair, fluffs it with his fingers, wonders if he’s preparing to go talk to his eighteen-year-old daughter or face a jury ruling on the death penalty, and lets himself out of the bathroom. Lucy has also gotten up and attempted to get dressed, though she’s clearly waiting for him to be done with the shower. For two people who were doing a lot more than that last night, they suddenly seem unable to so much as look at each other. She clears her throat. “Ah – good luck?”

“Thanks,” Flynn mutters, face feeling like the surface of Venus (she’s the goddess of love, right? That’s fitting?) He dashes across the room and into the hotel corridor, remembering belatedly that that big tech conference starts today, and unless Connor Mason’s security team is as good as advertised, he could be making himself a very obvious target. But for now, Flynn is not here to babysit billionaires, and he ventures leerily up to the door of Iris and Olivia’s room. Makes a fist, raises it, almost chickens out, swears at himself, and knocks.

There’s a long pause. Then he hears footsteps, and it opens. Olivia looks up at him, obviously intimidated to be running interference on the six-foot-four, intimidating father of your – whatever’s going on there, but Flynn _absolutely_ has no grounds to ask – let’s just say friend, but also clearly serving as the cowcatcher in case Iris doesn’t want to hear whatever stupid thing he has to say now. They eye each other, and Flynn clears his throat. “Can I – I was hoping I could talk to Iris?”

Olivia considers that. Then she says, “She’s kind of mad.”

“Yes, I can guess she is, and she has every right to be. But I want – I need to explain some things, and I didn’t want to leave it any longer. I owe you an apology too. You shouldn’t have been mixed up in our mess. Are you all right?”

Olivia blinks. “I think so, yeah. Can we just go back to Auckland, though? We’ve still got uni finals to finish, and I’ve got no idea what to tell my family.”

“I’ll work on it,” Flynn promises her. “As soon as it’s safe.”

Hearing their voices, Iris peers warily around the corner, clearly not sure what to expect from this visitation. She flinches when she sees him, but doesn’t back off. Then she says coolly, “I’m sure you have something important to be doing?”

“Yes. Talking to you.” Flynn shifts his weight. “Can I take you down to the hotel café for breakfast? If you want to, of course, but… we really need to discuss some things.”

“Yeah, I’d say we do.” Iris’s tone isn’t outright bitter, but it’s cool and sharp and clearly indicating that he has a long row to hoe if he is going to convince her of his bona fides. Still, she hesitates, then grabs her knitted wrap off the bed and shrugs it on, slips on her shoes, and strides toward him with a jaw-set, challenging expression that it gives him quite a turn to recognize as one of his. He’s always uncomfortably known that she’s a lot like him, but it’s still unsettling to see it so explicitly.

Leaving Olivia watching them curiously, they proceed stiffly down the hallway, several paces apart from each other, and get into the lift. Flynn pushes the crystal button for the ground floor, they ride down, and step out into the bustling Palace foyer. It gives him a brief pang of nostalgia for some of their vacations when Iris was younger, when he took her across the world and they stayed in anything from five-star mansions to tiny hovels off the beaten track, when she trusted him to guide her on adventures, and she’d fall asleep after a long day of exploring and he’d carry her back. She’s almost as tall as him now, she hasn’t been his little girl in a long time, but still.

They walk into the baroque café, are greeted and seated, and sit across from each other in awkward silence. The waiter arrives, Flynn orders in fluent Hungarian, and can feel Iris’s eyes on him. When the waiter has gone to get their coffees, she says, “How many languages do you speak?”

“I…” Flynn isn’t sure he can actually count. He’s been able to scrape by in most major world languages at some point, even if just a few phrases or bastard versions. If they’re counting full proficiency, the list is shorter, but not short. “Six? Seven, maybe? Something like that.”

Iris raises an eyebrow, as if to say that this is an objectively impressive accomplishment, but that the reason for its existence is that he’s been clear as mud about what he does for a living all these years. Their drinks are delivered, and she takes a sip of her cappuccino, then looks down at it, swirling the spoon aimlessly through the foam. Finally she says, “Did you know that Jessica had taken me to Chennai?”

“No.” Flynn wants that clear, if nothing else. “I don’t know what happened, I don’t know who you spoke to. We’re trying to track someone down who – seems very adept at pretending to be me.” He wonders if he wants to bring in Lucy’s alarming theory that it _is_ him, from a chronologically different moment of his existence, and decides that he does not, as he is already asking Iris to swallow a lot that sounds ridiculous. “I had a bad feeling, I was worried about you not answering my messages, but then I got the text and thought it was going to have to do. I had a lot going on with – well, I had a lot going on. Still, that’s not an excuse. If I had known you were in danger, I would have dropped everything and come to find you right away, and I feel very guilty that I didn’t do that anyway.”

Iris takes that in inscrutably. She bites her lip, as if trying to keep her composure, and Flynn might try to reach over the table to comfort her, but both of them are so bad at giving and receiving physical affection that he doesn’t know if that’s what she wants. God, who let him raise this girl – this young woman? He doesn’t have a damn clue what he’s doing. Any good she has turned out is in no part thanks to him.

“Okay,” Iris says after another moment, giving no indication if she thinks that is a sufficient explanation. “And are you going to explain what exactly my history professor has to do with all this? It looks like you two were – getting along well.”

Flynn winces, hopefully internally, and hastily takes a sip of his espresso. “Lucy and I have been working to try to figure out what’s going on with this whole missing-briefcase mess. We thought her own mystery might have something to do with it.”

“Does it?” Iris is in no mood to dance around the subject, evidently. Despite her understandable horror at discovering them in bed together, or at least clearly having been there recently, she does not want lies or evasions. “Or is that – whatever else it is?”

“I don’t know,” Flynn says, entirely truthfully. “I have no idea. It – wasn’t something I was planning on.”

“Are you making Professor Preston stay?” Iris asks, as their breakfast arrives. “You’re not… forcing her to help you, are you?”

“God. No.” Flynn understands that everything about his character, personality, and actions is legitimately open to question, but that still stings. “I didn’t – I wouldn’t do that. And what – happened last night, it was – it was entirely… mutual.”

Iris coughs pointedly, as if to say that is all she ever wants to know about last night, thank you, and Flynn, who is perfectly happy never to volunteer more information about it in his life, snaps his mouth shut like a bear trap. Iris cuts her waffle, dips it in the whipped cream, and eats a few bites, and Flynn searches vainly for anything else he should say. God, this is hard. Why do people talk about things? It seems stupid.

In hopes of distracting himself, he starts on his own breakfast, and the awkward silence returns. Flynn glances reflexively around the café, since when he’s in places like this, it’s usually part of sweeping the area or preparing for a retrieval. He’s just wondering if the guy in the hat by the window constitutes a potential security risk, when Iris says, “So, is this like with Matej? When it’s been going on for a while, and didn’t think you could tell me?”

Flynn inhales a bite of toast whole, chokes, tastes strawberry jam burning up the back of his sinuses, and has to pound himself hard on the chest to avoid perishing in the middle of a fancy Budapest tea room. Iris eyes him with a faint trace of amusement, though mingled with confusion and annoyance, until he’s more or less recovered. Then she says, “Right. You thought I didn’t know about him, didn’t you?”

“Wh – ” Flynn wheezes, eyes streaming. “You were – I didn’t think – I just didn’t want – I mean, it was obviously – obviously not a subject for a – ”

Iris smiles, slightly cynically. “No, I didn’t realize it as an eleven-year-old, but I figured it out when I was a little older. That _is_ what was going on, right?”

“I… yes.” Flynn can’t really lie about that now. “We were… together. For a few years following your mother’s death. It was an off-and-on thing. Matej wanted to make it more official, but I… refused. That was part of why we left Croatia and moved to America, and why I took this job. I suppose – I suppose I just needed to get away.”

His throat burns, as that is the most he has honestly said about Matej to Iris ever, and he can’t repress the suspicion that it was a dangerous and ill-advised thing to do. She doesn’t look angry, though if she’s known perfectly well for a long time, at least this isn’t a horrible shock. Then she says, more quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” Flynn looks away. “The culture I grew up with, in old Yugoslavia, what was around, it just… wasn’t what anyone did. Your grandmother guessed, but nobody else. And I – Mom had just died, I didn’t… I didn’t want to make it any harder for you.”

Iris opens her mouth again, then stops, as if she can’t honestly say if she would have appreciated it or not. “I don’t know,” she says at last. “I did like him. Maybe we could have made it work. I guess it’s way too late for that now. But Dad… it’s not like I never want you to be happy again. Have there been other people that you just cut off, because you thought I wouldn’t like it?”

“No.” Flynn blows out a breath. “There hasn’t been anyone since him. I found it was just easier to be alone and concentrate on work and raising you. That’s why what happened with Lucy was even more… unexpected.”

Iris’s eye twitches, but she doesn’t try to immediately change the subject. She takes it in, as if understanding that she has to work through its existence somehow, come to terms with it, even if it is personally horrifying, and Flynn feels a burst of clumsy pride, deep admiration, that she seems so much stronger than he has ever been. He loves her, he loves her so much, he loves her until he can’t stand it, and it’s always been that way, since when you become a parent, you agree to part of your heart perpetually walking around outside your body. He would do anything for Iris, defy time and space itself, since he held her in that hospital room in Dubrovnik, in the very first hours of the new millennium. He just wishes, wishes with every old and raw and tired sinew of him, that he had not been so bad at it.

“Well,” Iris says, after another long pause. “I’m – well, it’s still kind of weird for me, as you can probably guess. So what exactly are we supposed to do next?”

“I’m not sure.” Flynn remembers his eggs, which have gone somewhat rubbery, and eats a forkful. “I know Olivia wants to go back to New Zealand, and I assume you do too. But as long as this is still going on, if you’re in danger, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“It’s almost winter break,” Iris says. “I’ve already emailed my professors about submitting final assignments, so I suppose we don’t _need_ to rush back. How much longer is this going to take?”

“I have literally no idea.” Especially if time has in fact become a relative concept. “I promised Lucy I’d find her sister, Amy. She was also kidnapped – really kidnapped – and we’ve been trying to catch up to her for a while now. There are other things going on – dead people, missing millions, stolen industrial secrets, some kind of major international crime syndicate – but that’s the main thing.”

Iris struggles not to blink at the utterly casual tone in which he delivers this information, until Flynn belatedly supposes that what is just another day at the office for him is the plot of a thriller movie to everyone else. He coughs, finishing the bitter dregs of his espresso. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he adds lamely, since she’s still goggling. “I’m used to it.”

“You’re _used –_ ” Iris opens her mouth, then shuts it, shaking her head. “Okay. Is this actually what you do all the time?”

“This is an extraordinary case,” Flynn admits. “They’re not all this bad. Mostly they’re just like slightly more difficult business trips.”

Iris continues to stare at him squiggle-eyed, so that he hopes he’s not immediately going backward on whatever tenuous progress they have made. She eats the rest of her waffle, scrapes the cream and fruit off the plate with her fork, and Flynn feels an instinctive parental concern as to whether she has had enough food. Then Iris says quietly, “This has to be really dangerous, doesn’t it? Isn’t there anything else you could do?”

Flynn starts to answer, realizes that he doesn’t know what to say, and stops. He’s gotten so used to the constant risk that it’s not something he even notices anymore, and he didn’t take any outstandingly hazardous assignments when Iris was younger. He wasn’t reckless. But being caught would definitely have ensured that he was detained in some foreign jail for a long time, at the least, and no matter what he’s rationalized about making sure Iris has a good life, he knows that he’s left her in danger of losing him, as well as Lorena. He’s never thought he could be satisfied with an office job, but it’s not like he still needs money. He could retire, but what _would_ he do?

“I’ll have to think some things over,” Flynn says, after a pause. “When this is over. Anyway, come on. We should head back upstairs.”

Iris nods, drinks the rest of her cappuccino, and they get up, as Flynn leaves some crumpled florins on the table to pay for the meal. They cross the café, emerge into the front hall, and are waiting for the elevator when a well-dressed, middle-aged woman steps up between them. She is a full foot shorter than Flynn, somewhat stout, and has neatly groomed dark curls, buttoned housecoat, and sensible orthopedic heels, looking like someone’s dowdy aunt on a big international trip. Flynn flicks a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, can’t think why she seems familiar, and tries to return to nonchalantly waiting for the elevator, when she tugs on his sleeve. “Garcia.”

He goes cold all over. He doesn’t know her face, no, since they’ve never met in real life, but there’s no mistaking the voice, which he has heard over the phone for years, and which has been generally displeased with him throughout this entire clusterfuck. It’s Margo, his NBB handler, who has apparently judged the situation dire enough to track him down and appear in person. He jerks his head up, notices that the two large men in suits loitering casually by the potted palms are pretending not to pay attention, and realizes at once that she’s come with backup. There are probably more strategically positioned through the hotel. Whether to take him physically into custody, or whatever else, he doesn’t know, but he instinctively throws an arm in front of Iris. “Look,” he says. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Is there?” Margo cocks her head and regards him with beady dark eyes. Glancing at Iris, she adds, “You must be his daughter. I’m a colleague of your father’s from work.”

Iris looks as if when she wanted to know more about his job, this isn’t exactly what she meant. “Dad?”

“It’s fine,” Flynn says, even as he can feel his blood pressure starting to climb. He tries to survey for escape routes without turning his head or being obvious about it. He isn’t carrying – even he isn’t paranoid enough to bring his gun to a nice breakfast with his teenage daughter – and he can’t bail out and leave Lucy behind. Does Margo know she’s here, already send extra members of the goon squad up to stake out her room? Plus, of course, Olivia. These poor women have already encountered quite a lot of misadventure simply by having the bad taste to hang around with the Flynns, and it’s probably the polite thing to minimize it. But Margo wouldn’t have come all this way, and shed her anonymity, to tell Flynn he’s doing a great job and keep up the good work, champ. This is definitely trouble.

“Why don’t we go upstairs?” Margo suggests, when neither Flynn nor Iris say anything. “There may be something interesting up there, something we can use. Garcia?”

Flynn calculates swiftly in his head. If he does not want to beat up a middle-aged woman in full view of the horrified public (Margo is a cutthroat bitch, but the optics would be bad, and the police would definitely be called) and then fight his way through the backup, leaving Lucy, Olivia, and Iris to whatever these assholes want, he has no choice but to comply. It does occur to him that they have a complete copy of the contents of Khodzhayev’s briefcase, at least supposedly. If they handed those notes over, fulfilling his original job, is there any chance at all that NBB would call off the dogs? Technically, they were contracted to get them for Connor Mason, and Mason is still in this very city, at his big nerd conference. They could just drive over and hand them in. But having had a look at said contents, and the hint at what Mason might be using them for, Flynn isn’t sure that’s a good idea. At all.

“Fine,” he says, as graciously as possible. Maybe he can figure out some way to stall them. “No need for the peanut gallery, is there? I’m cooperating.”

Margo snorts, but nods to the suits to hold their position. The elevator dings as it arrives, and she, Flynn, and Iris step inside for what promises to be the mother of all excruciating rides in this department. The door swishes shut, Flynn pushes the button, and racks his brains for any way to give Lucy a heads-up before they get up there. It’s not even worth asking how NBB has tracked him down – that is their entire damn job, and he knows he has been sloppy. Was it via whatever ur-Flynn is out there, the one they suspect of deliberately throwing the whole operation, or do they just (sensibly) think it’s all him? If they try to take him somewhere else, he’s going to have to resist. That means they’re not planning to bring him back.

The elevator hums up to the fourth floor, and the doors open. Margo, Flynn, and Iris step out, turn down the hall, and Flynn is quite sure that the two more large men they pass, though they’re dressed in casual gym clothes and look like they’re heading down for a workout, are also NBB spooks. They reach room 406, and he nods to his boss and his daughter. “Wait here. I’ll go inside and get – some things.”

Margo raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t say anything. Flynn reaches into his pocket and swipes his key card, trying to look nonchalant, then lets himself in. Low-voiced, he hisses, “Lucy? Lucy!”

She appears from around the corner, confused but unhurt, and he feels his heart perform a gasping, tumbling, undignified somersault of utter, unbearable relief that he will have to think about later (or possibly never). She is showered and dressed, apparently waiting for him to return from his brunch with Iris, and opens her mouth to ask how it went, but stops at the look on his face. “What? What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“NBB’s here.” Flynn keeps his voice down; Margo can’t hear him, but God knows if they have some electronic eavesdropping setup. “My handler, she’s outside with Iris. I don’t know exactly what they want, but it can’t be good. They know about the other me, like I said. They’ve suspected me from the start. If I can’t prove that it _wasn’t_ me, then – ”

“Your creepy employers aren’t trustworthy and may be about to turn on you? Shocking.” Lucy purses her lips, and while Flynn thinks it may be a fair point, she can judge his life choices at another date. “Rufus has the copy of the briefcase contents. We’re not going to just give it to them, are we? After the whole suggestion of – you know. _Time travel?”_

“I don’t know what we’re going to do.” Flynn’s blood pressure is continuing to climb. “Margo has brought plenty of henchmen with her, they’re not playing around. We’re going to have to give them something. I obviously don’t think they’re to be trusted with whatever Khodzhayev was working on, but – ”

Lucy flinches, folding her arms defensively across her chest. Flynn has a sudden and inexplicable urge to go to her, to hold her protectively, to promise that he’ll make sure she’s safe, but he doesn’t. Then Lucy says, “You don’t think that NBB are the ones who kidnapped Amy?”

“No,” Flynn says, if only because he’s starting to get a sense, explainable by nothing other than a hunch from a guy who spends a lot of time around bad people, that these Rittenhouse lunatics are responsible for it instead. Why, he doesn’t know, but he’s starting to have another idea about that too, one he really hopes is wrong. “That doesn’t mean they’re up to any good, though. Do we have any of the papers, the less important ones? If we can foist them off with something – ”

“If we give them anything from the briefcase, they’ll know we got the copies somehow,” Lucy points out. “Then they’ll want to know who dropped it off, and who I talked to. And I’m pretty sure that they’re definitely not going to swallow the idea of two of you.”

Flynn supposes he can’t blame them for that, given that he doesn’t either, and looks edgily at the door as there’s a crisp knock. “Garcia?” Margo calls. “How’s it going?”

“Fine!” Flynn shouts back, which is possibly the biggest lie he’s told in his life. Then he glances back at Lucy. “I think we should tell them about Rittenhouse.”

“Is that a good idea?” Lucy frowns. “We don’t know who they are, except that they’re clearly evil. They’re the ones killing their way through your clients to get the briefcase. If NBB finds out – ”

“If nothing else, they might go after a rival outfit for poaching on their territory,” Flynn points out. “If Jessica is a mole, and has been sabotaging them on Rittenhouse’s behalf – ”

“I still don’t think this is – ”

“Look.” Flynn puts his hands on her forearms, gripping hard, as he draws Lucy closer and makes her look up at him. “We have to do something. Iris is out there with Margo right now. I am not going to argue about this. It’s tell them about Rittenhouse or give them the briefcase contents, and we just agreed we can’t do that. So – ”

“But if Rittenhouse has Amy – ” Lucy’s lips go white. “I hired you in the first place to save her, and last night, you promised, you _promised_ you’d – ”

“We’ll figure it out,” Flynn says, which is also a lie, because he has no godforsaken idea what to do next, aside from bluff like a madman. “You stay here.”

With that, he ducks his head and kisses her nose briefly, awkwardly, not even knowing why he did it and feeling instantly regretful as he walks to the door and opens it again, stepping out into the hall. “We’ve figured out who’s responsible for this,” he informs Margo, as authoritatively as he can. “It’s not me. It’s some kind of similar black-ops group who has been interfering in hopes of getting to the briefcase first, and they’re the ones behind all the murders. Rittenhouse.”

He watches her face very closely as he says it, for any involuntary flicker of recognition, however small. He did, after all, think there was a chance that she was in on it, covering for Jessica or making sure that NBB didn’t find out about her double life. There is – he doesn’t know what, but something. Margo is clearly familiar with the name, though in her line of work it would be surprising if she wasn’t, and it’s entirely possible that this is a known pain in NBB’s ass, some other long-term obstruction to their plans. There is a tenuous pause. Then Margo says, “Yes, thank you, I’ve heard of those people. But if you had any sense, it’s not something you’d be discussing in public.”

“Why?” Flynn stares at her sharply. “What the hell is it about them?”

 _“What_ did I just say?” Margo looks deeply displeased with his inability to follow simple, direct, obvious instructions that she just gave him three seconds ago. “I had a feeling it might be that lot, but it’s not only them. We know you’re involved in this too, Garcia, and since that’s the case – ”

She’s almost undoubtedly on an earpiece, so her thugs can know when to move in if things start going south, and sure enough, the ersatz gym rats casually appear at the head of the corridor. Flynn senses that there is a very brief window here before it could get very messy indeed, almost certainly involving punching, and holds up both hands. “Signals are a little crossed,” he allows. “We don’t know what’s going on, and it looks bad, I can see that. But don’t jump to conclusions just yet. We still need a chance to – ”

“Do we?” Margo is now eyeing him with a markedly unfriendly expression. “You know, I really have given you time to sort this out. I haven’t done plenty of things that I could have, and I think you know that. But if you’re going to keep playing stupid about why I’m here and everything else that you’ve done, well – ”

Flynn knows that so far as that goes, she’s right. She _has_ allowed him more time than he was originally expecting, he’s managed to make it to several different cities and conduct his own investigation without overt interference, and she held off, this far, at siccing the NBB dogs of war on him. He also has a moment to wonder in despair just what his evil twin has done now, since that seems to be what Margo’s referring to, and wonders what happened to Jessica after said evil twin negotiated Iris and Olivia’s freedom. “Margo,” he says, too aware how flimsy it sounds. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” She looks even more unimpressed. The gym rats have almost reached them, and Flynn is going haywire with the effort of holding himself under control. “Well, Garcia, I can safely say that you’re never going to work for us or any of our subsidiary organizations again. We’ll require that you turn in all electronics, records, material, passports, company credit cards, or other proprietary information within forty-eight hours. That, of course, is the easy way. If you really want to go for the hard way – ”

“Wait a damn second.” Flynn has been trying to be conciliatory and defuse the situation, but at that, his temper sparks. “You can’t just completely strike me off the books and – ”

“Dad?” Iris says nervously. “Dad, should we just – ”

“Obviously, yes, I can,” Margo snaps. “I can fire you at any time and for any reason, and I think you’ve more than met that threshold. You can hand over your keys for us to go to Chennai and sweep your house for you, or you can take us there yourself and convince me that you shouldn’t be blacklisted in this entire industry. So – ”

“What? Let you go and ransack my house? I don’t _think_ so – ”

Despite their efforts, they are raising their voices, and just then, the door opens a crack, giving Flynn a heart attack. Not because it’s someone after him – far from it – but because Lucy has clearly been listening on the far side of the door, and has decided that this has gotten alarming enough to put in an appearance. Flynn immediately tries to push it shut, rude though this might be to do in her face, but too late. Margo’s nostrils flare. “You have company? Someone you want to introduce us to?”

“No,” Flynn says. “No one.”

Margo exchanges a darkly significant look with her henchmen, as if weighing up the odds that he has a machine gun nest back there, and Flynn wonders if he can, in fact, physically split in half and/or duplicate himself to cover both Iris and Lucy at once. It seems like a useful skill. “It isn’t anyone dangerous,” he says. “Just. . . my associate.”

Despite the exigency of the situation, Iris raises both eyebrows at him, as if to say that this is a pretty lame way to describe a woman he has obviously done the dirty with, but Flynn decides that they can quibble over semantics later. He tries to put one arm in front of Iris and one arm in front of the door without visibly panicking, and it’s not clear how well he manages that, given Margo’s even more skeptical look. He is not sure how he is going to get them out of here without handing over his house keys for NBB to basically steal whatever they want, which obviously he cannot allow. “Margo – ”

After another hair-trigger moment, Margo curtly waves for the thugs to back off a few paces, which they do. The tension declines, but does not dissipate, and Flynn and his boss stare each other down. Then Margo says, “Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

“The man you were speaking with yesterday. Young, African-American. Worked for Mason Industries, by the look of things. After some cross-check with their employee database, we’ve been able to identify him most probably as Rufus Carlin. For completeness’ sake, we’ll need to question him too.”

Flynn figures that Rufus is probably at the tech convention with everyone else, but he also does not feel that this is a great way to repay the poor guy for his help. Not, however, that it looks as if anyone has a terrific amount of choice. He does briefly wonder if they can get NBB haring off after Rufus instead, but Margo has already made clear that she is not going to accept any more of his bullshit excuses, and is zeroed in on him as the source of the trouble. Flynn still thinks they are in very deep shit if they let NBB take them out of the hotel, but –

“Iris?” Just then, the other door opens, as Olivia has obviously heard talking out here for a while, and it is sounding less and less promising. “Is everything – ?”

Flynn can practically hear the record scratch, whether in his head or in his daughter’s, as Iris clearly has the same sort of reaction to Olivia inadvertently stepping into the middle of this mess that he did with Lucy. The blood drains from Iris’s face. “Olivia, go back inside.”

Olivia opens her mouth, catches sight of their companions, and starts to do so, but one of the NBB thugs darts over and prevents the door from shutting. “And you are?”

“My name’s Olivia Waiotaiki, I’m a friend of Iris’s.” Olivia’s eyes flick questioningly to the Flynns. “Trust me, I’ve got _no_ idea what’s going on. I just want to go home.”

“We’ll see.” Margo studies her consideringly, then nods at the other thug. “Whoever’s in Garcia’s room, get them out too. Then we’ll all go look for this Mr. Carlin.”

Flynn is on the verge of totally losing it, but this is a horrendously disadvantageous situation for hand-to-hand combat, and if he tries something stupid, all of the girls are getting hurt. He is frozen on the brink, as the second thug pushes the door of Flynn’s room open, reaches in, and extracts Lucy, who looks confused and upset. Flynn lunges in and practically grabs her from the asshole, wrapping both arms around her, and does not like the look Margo gets upon observing this. There is a very long pause. Then Margo smiles, beckoning to the gym rats, who fall in to either side. “Well,” she says. “Time to go see the sights.”

Flynn, Lucy, Iris, and Olivia are forthwith escorted down the corridor, back into the elevator, and ride down to ground level, where they are joined by the suited lurkers from before. This brings the total number of goons up to four, which Flynn thinks he could probably take on if a) he had his damn gun (his paranoia is justified, he should in fact bring it everywhere), and b) if he didn’t have three women to protect. Lucy has proven to be capable of taking care of herself, at least in impromptu combat situations, but this is different. They step out of the Palace and under the portico, just as a sleek black Town Car is pulling up, and someone opens the door.  “Ms. Smith?”

That is apparently Margo (and just as apparently an alias), and she nods. The Flynns and respective sort-of-significant others are not-quite-pushed into the back seat, but nonetheless, they arrive there quite firmly, and the NBB thugs get in to either side. Iris and Olivia anxiously grab each other’s hands, and Flynn feels Lucy reach out to take hold of his arm. The door shuts, leaving them in the dimness (the windows are tinted quite darkly, and he hopes vainly that some killjoy Hungarian policeman will pull them over, but that’s probably asking too much) and Margo seats herself magisterially across the way. “Mr. Carlin is likely to be at the European Institute of Innovation and Technology, isn’t he?”

“Why are you asking me?” Flynn isn’t sure he can get away with being too sassy, but that doesn’t mean he’s suddenly going to turn meek and compliant. Lucy’s grip tightens on his arm, as she half-tucks herself under it, and he increases his hold on her as well, just in case. He doesn’t _think_ that NBB is going to drive them to some rundown back alley, interrogate him, and then point-blank execute him, but this is obviously a very bad situation. “Aren’t you the ones who are supposed to know everything?”

Margo gives him a cold fish-eye, but turns to the driver and says something in a low voice. The car purrs to life, and they roll out from beneath the Palace awning, out into a cool, pale-grey morning. There’s a fair amount of traffic, and while it’s a short drive down through the Józsefváros district and across one of the Danube bridges, it takes long enough for Flynn to wonder if it’s a stupid idea to be impatient, given that something bad is almost guaranteed to happen at the end. But they finally reach EIT headquarters, emblazoned with fancy banners promoting the tech conference, and the driver turns in and parks the car in one of the few available spots. Margo and two of the goons get out, leaving the other two to supervise the Flynns and company. Now, Flynn thinks. If he could just get a decent jump on them – but there’s not much room to maneuver in the backseat, and that leaves the other problems –

It takes close to fifteen minutes, but Margo and the goons return, marching a ruffled Rufus Carlin, still wearing his convention badge, in company between them. The door opens, he sees them, and he gets a not-unwarranted look of total exasperation. “Oh my _God,”_ he says. “What did you white people do _now?”_

“Get in the car,” Margo says, not at all ominously. “We’re going for a ride.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Bratislava, Slovakia**

**2:42 PM CEST**

They have been driving for the last two hours, northwest up the M1, and while Flynn cannot be 100% certain, he is fairly convinced that they are heading in the direction of Slovakia, which lies just up the Danube, bordering Austria and Hungary. The road signs have changed from Hungarian to Slovakian, at any rate, and he’s trying to figure out what the hell NBB wants with them here. Maybe it was just a matter of getting them out of Budapest, but if the next step was just to transport them to a conveniently secluded area and shoot them in the head, this is a peculiar amount of effort for it. Rufus, Lucy, Iris, and Olivia have continued to look as if they think this might well be a possibility, for which Flynn can’t blame them, and of course Margo and the thugs have offered dick-all explanation. Figures.

Flynn looks out the window again, trying to judge how much further to their destination, if that is in fact actually it. Slovakian isn’t quite as close to Croatian as Slovenian is, but he can read it anyway, and they’re definitely coming up on Bratislava, the capital, which he recognizes from various time and jobs spent here. They’re also only thirty miles west of Vienna, if that’s factoring into any plans, as Vienna is also an important techno-information hub where he’s run plenty of retrievals. Do Margo and Company want to finish Rittenhouse’s noble work, and find the rest of his clients? Then – what? Kill them? Shake them down for any time-travel information they inadvertently possess? _What?_

“Hey, so.” Rufus clears his throat. “If it’s all the same to everyone, any chance of a pit stop on our road trip of doom? Being kidnapped really makes me need to pee.”

Margo gives him a look, while one of the thugs has to cough. Flynn shoots a sidelong glance at the younger man, trying to warn him to take it easy – he doesn’t _think_ that NBB is going to kill anyone, at least not before they thoroughly debrief them, but that doesn’t mean Rufus should go getting mouthy. There is a slightly tense moment, then Margo says, “We’ll be there soon. Then that might be the least of your concerns.”

“Thanks, lady. That was really comforting.” Rufus looks incredulous. “Start recording my goodbyes and deleting my browser history now, huh?”

Flynn gives him another, longer look, even as Rufus seems to feel that if he’s getting axed, he will go out in a blaze of glory. The women are also clearly alarmed by this, and there’s a sense as if something might come of it, they might pull together and do something drastic like tackling the driver, when Margo snaps, “No, we’re not planning to assassinate you in a back alley. I don’t know what you think we are, but – ”

“Frankly, I’m wondering.” Despite his earlier resolve to tell Rufus to hold his tongue, Flynn finds his frustration bursting out as well. “If you think this is the best way to – ”

“Come on.” Margo stares at him challengingly. “You’ve worked for us how long, Garcia? Not that you will any more, but surely seven years was long enough. We protect our investments, our clients, and our industrial secrets. Surely that is no surprise?”

To be fair, no, it’s not. Flynn has always known that these are bad people, or at least totally amoral and willing to do anything for the right price, and that has never bothered him, or at least outstandingly, beforehand. He has bought in and participated and profited from the system, once helped “encourage” another procurator who had screwed the pooch into early retirement, and the karma stick always wallops you when it swings back around. As far as that goes, Flynn figures he probably does deserve it, but not like this. Not with so many other people in the way. Not with Lucy and Iris. Just let him get them out of this, if nothing else. Olivia and Rufus too, since they’re innocent, but especially the women.

Conversation lags for the next several minutes as they enter Bratislava city limits and begin circling up the attractive hillside streets. It’s another old fortress settlement straddling the Danube, deeply Slavic in character, with red-roofed churches and castles and grey communist-era blocs, baroque palaces and bell-towered stone squares, glittering glass high-rises and gothic facades. As they’re sitting at a traffic light, Flynn has the oddest sense that he’s seen this recently – very recently, in fact. Like he was just here a few hours ago, and is now returning again. For a moment he’s here, in the car, and another, he’s standing somewhere else, under the trees – he thinks it’s Hviezdoslav Square, in the old town, but he can’t be sure. It clashes nauseously in his head, a wave of sickness sweeps over him, and he falls back against the seat, blinking spots out of his eyes. What the hell?

“Garcia?” Lucy reaches for him, low-voiced, worried. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” Flynn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t like the look Margo just gave him (though be fair, he hasn’t liked any of the ones she’s given him all day). “It’s nothing.”

Lucy isn’t entirely convinced, clearly, but Flynn isn’t going to say anything more with the circus watching, and swallows hard to banish the lingering bile in the back of his throat. He manages to hold it together, with no more strange dissociation/flashbacks (though how can it be a flashback if he hasn’t been here, at least not for a few years?) as they navigate through a few more ring roads and roll to a halt in a pay-parking bay not far from the city center. Margo nods at the thugs, who shift their weight as if preparing to deal smartly with any funny business, and then opens the door, letting in a rush of warm, humid summer air. “Out.”

There’s a pause, and then the captives climb out like a line of ducklings, more or less willingly. After several hours of sitting, there are a few grimaces and groans, and Flynn tries to pull out the catch in his back, in case this is suddenly going to hot up and he might be responsible for public defense. Just then, however, he’s hit by another of those sickly out-of-body experiences, takes a reeling step, and almost loses his balance. Closer, it felt closer. Like he’s watching himself, watching them, from less than thirty yards away, maybe behind one of the trees in the park. They’re just a few steps off Hviezdoslav. Does that mean –

Iris and Lucy grab his elbows with mutual sounds of concern, and Flynn thinks grimly that at the rate this is going, they might end up having to protect him, instead of vice versa. There’s a long pause as Margo stares at him expectantly, and Flynn, totally lost, does his best to stare menacingly back. Then she says, “Well? This is the rendezvous point. You give us the briefcase, and we let the others go. Mr. Carlin will vet the contents for accuracy, and then – once you’ve turned in all your relevant documents – we can cleanly terminate your employment. This doesn’t have to be messy.”

“I’m sorry, wh – ?” Flynn struggles to speak through the increasing ringing in his ears, and keeps blinking in a vain hope of focusing his vision. “Rendezvous point according to who?”

“According to whoever you’re working with.” Margo surveys him flatly. “Don’t play stupid, Garcia. I think we both want this over with.”

“Look.” Flynn _really_ does not think it’s a wise idea to broach this oh-hey-maybe-I-have-an-exact-doppelganger-running-around crackpot theory, but whoever this asshole is, he has done a fine job at doubling the trouble that Flynn is able to get himself into in the ordinary course of things, and that is… not good. “You’ve just been in a car with me for over two hours, after you dragged me and everyone else out of a hotel and across an international border. You damn well know I have no idea what’s going on, I don’t have the briefcase, and if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you bastards anyway. So you’re just going to have to – ”

Margo flicks her eyes at Lucy, Olivia, and Iris, as if to say they have a lot of hostages here if Flynn decides he wants to play hardball. “Is that a confession?” she says. “That you were never planning to hand it over to us, even before Jessica Logan was attacked and – ”

“Jessica isn’t working for you.” No more time for subtlety or calculating risks or anything else. He is going to have to go full house. “She’s working for those people I told you about back in Budapest. Rittenhouse. You recognized the name, and you’re scared of them. So if she’s been the mole in the operation this whole time, feeding you false intelligence, then you’re going to turn on the wrong people and blow this to hell. I was planning to hand the briefcase over, by the way. I _did._ I still am not entirely sure why it went missing. But if you want me as a scapegoat for your problems, Margo, you’re _really_ barking up the wrong tree.”

His (ex?) boss eyes him loathingly, but she seems momentarily lost for words. It’s true that Flynn has been an invaluable asset for NBB, has worked plenty of fiddly and difficult cases, and in this line of work, you can’t go burning these kinds of elite, high-skilled employees without an ironclad reason. It occurs to Flynn that Margo may not know what the fuck is going on either, and she shakes her head as if trying to get water out of her ear. Then, brusquely, clearly trying to regain command of the situation, she says, “Your associate told us to go to Bratislava. That’s why we’re here. So – ”

“Associate?”

“He called us and told us where you were. That’s why we came to get you from the hotel. We were under the impression that the two of you had been in contact. When you weren’t cooperative, well, that changed the plan. But as I said, it’s time to end this and – ”

Flynn is about to answer with a lot of profanities, not even directed at Margo this time, when the dissociation happens for a third time, even more gut-wrenchingly, like being plunged headfirst into a bucket of freezing water, or a badly fitting rubber suit. He’s standing behind a tree, and he’s staring down the barrel of a gun at the group, their group, which is about thirty yards away. He’s pointing it, closing one eye, sighting, and aiming at the thug standing closest to the trees. It’s going on, it’s still going, he can’t snap back to himself, and then he pulls the trigger.

The next instant, there’s a muffled crack, the thug makes a confused sound and drops like a stone, the other thug rears back and grabs for the Glock strapped to the inside of his suit jacket, and Margo looks shocked, then furious. “Is this your fault?” she screams at Flynn. “Was this the trap? Lure us here and then – ?”

Flynn can’t answer, mainly because he’s just dived onto Lucy and Iris, knocking them down, and pulls Olivia with them, just in case more shooting is going to happen or the surviving thug thinks about retaliating. Rufus looks briefly outraged that he does not merit a tackle of protection, then hits the deck on his own accord, as the thug is glancing wildly around for the shooter and even Margo is starting to look spooked. It’s clear that she thinks this was a diabolically genius plan by Flynn and his evil-mastermind friend to kill _them,_ which is almost flattering, but not good at all. Flynn lies still, heart pounding, covering Lucy and Iris. Muffled into the dirt, his daughter hisses, “Dad, what the _hell is going on?”_

That is the million-euro question, as it were, and one for which absolutely nobody has a satisfactory answer. There aren’t that many people nearby and nobody appears to be raising the alarm over the first shot, which sounded like it had a silencer, but there is a slow red leak pooling beneath the fallen thug’s head, and a dead body in a public park with a gunshot wound is not something that will go unnoticed forever. Flynn’s fingers ache to wrap around a damn gun of their own, needs it to protect the women, as his heart rattles a panicked staccato in his chest. No more shots. Has what’s-his-face cleared out?

When the park remains eerily silent, and Flynn wonders if he should try to warg into the shooter or whatever just happened, the thug straightens up. “Call the police?”

“No,” Margo snaps. “No police. We don’t need anyone else with eyes on this, especially not a bunch of foreign cops who’d ask awkward questions. Stuff Thomson in the trunk, _quickly._ Then we’ll decide how to proceed.”

The thug nods, grabs the body of his fallen counterpart (Olivia and Rufus make horrified noises and glance away) and maneuvers him quickly into the trunk of the car, as Flynn thinks that you can indeed work loyally for this organization for years, but they will shed no tears whatsoever over your abrupt and undignified demise. He gets off the women and climbs to his feet, thinking it best to be prepared for whatever might be about to happen, but keeps them behind him. He and Margo stare at each other. For her part, she seems to be talking herself into something. Then she reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a heavy revolver, pointing it at him. “Hands up.”

All things considered, Flynn can’t entirely blame her. He slowly raises both hands, as Margo cocks the hammer with a thunk and Lucy and Iris both make convulsive movements. Margo jerks the gun at him. “Walk.”

“Where?”

“Just walk.” Her nostrils flare. “That direction. Where it came from.”

Flynn is about to argue, since he can’t agree to be separated from the women, but he still doesn’t have a weapon. The second thug – well, now the only thug – has returned from corpse-stashing duty, and to assist in Flynn’s decision-making process, grabs Lucy around the neck and jams the gun against her head. Flynn’s stomach turns over, any further appetite for open defiance suddenly drains out of him, and he turns numbly on his heel. With Margo jamming the revolver into the small of his back, he starts to walk, trying not to look over his shoulder too many times. The thug remains parked where he is, with the clear implication that he’s going to stand there just like that until Margo gets done, and that if Flynn does anything of an ill-advised nature, well. Iris, Olivia, and Rufus likewise can’t run for help if the guy is going to shoot Lucy, and Flynn entertains a sudden and futile hope that some innocent Slovakian dog-walker will notice this and raise the alarm. Not that that’s going to do anything but make this, somehow, even worse, but still.

Flynn and Margo walk in silence for several dozen paces, toward the trees where the shot came from, the muzzle of the revolver still digging into his back. They reach the vantage point where Flynn’s pretty sure it came from, and he can’t help jerking his head around in expectation of something or some _one_ he might not want to see, but no one’s there. There’s a bike path that leads out of sight, so someone staked out here could have just run down it, and Flynn wonders if they’re going to conduct a search of the entire city. There’s a long pause. Then Margo says, “Who shot Thomson?”

 _Me._ Flynn bites it back just in time, especially since he’s not about to share that little bombshell with anyone. “I have no idea.”

“You’re lying.” Margo jabs at him with the revolver. “This was a trick. The final stage of whatever plan you and your associate had going on. This is unforg – Garcia, I don’t _want_ to do this, but you’re forcing my hand. So – ”

With that, with an odd, matter-of-fact clarity, Flynn realizes that she’s psyching herself up to kill him. It’s not clear if Margo has ever personally executed a disobedient procurator at point-blank range in a remote, wooded corner of a Slovakian city park before, but that’s what is about to happen, if he just stands here and lets it. Obviously, he isn’t keen on the idea, but at any sign of a struggle, the thug is going to shoot Lucy in retaliation. And that – he _can’t –_

“Come on, Margo,” Flynn says, in an ingratiating, come-on-you-wouldn’t-shoot-your-good-buddy kind of voice. “We can fix this. Huh? We can fix it. We can still find the briefcase and make sure it’s – ”

“No, we can’t. I don’t know what’s going on, but it needs to be stopped.” Margo raises the gun and holds it with both hands. They don’t shake at all. If Flynn was hoping for this to be her first actual rodeo out of the safety of the office, and for her to be rattled by the hard and dirty undersides of field work, he appears to be disappointed. “All this nonsense, it’s just too messy, Garcia. We don’t like mess. And so – ”

“I don’t know what’s happening either.” Flynn keeps his hands up, sensing that for once, this is no time to improve the situation with withering repartee. “But killing me might just make it even worse.”

“I’m about willing to take that chance.” Margo levels the gun at his chest – which, again, fair. “I’ll see that your daughter gets a nice payout and a new identity, a fresh start, as long as she never says anything to anyone. So just do the right thing for Iris and eat a bullet. Haven’t you ever thought before that that would be better for her?”

Despite himself, Flynn flinches badly, since it’s of course an idea he’s had in some shape or form, often – that it would be better for Iris if he had died and Lorena had lived, or that he just wasn’t part of the picture anymore. Horrifyingly, he can feel himself half-tempted to do what Margo suggests, and just not fight this, go to his knees and get it over with. But just then, back on the far side of the park, there’s the sound of a scuffle, a bang, shouts and running, and Margo whirls around to look. In that instant, Flynn lunges.

He grabs the gun by the barrel and wrenches it violently out of her hand, as Margo manages to get off a shot that ricochets into the trees. That one definitely was not silenced, and Flynn punches her hard enough to knock her off her feet. He doesn’t like hitting a middle-aged woman who isn’t trained in combat, even one who was just willing to kill him, but needs must. Margo tumbles into the mud, Flynn points the gun at her, and reminds himself that they would in fact be safer if she was dead. Or it could send all of NBB on the warpath permanently, who knows. Either way, he _should_ kill her. Right?

“Garcia.” Wounded and winded, Margo raises her hands. He can see a flicker of fear in her face, as they both realize that the tables have turned. She knows he’d have no problem doing this, and she just gave him ample reason to want her dead. “Wait.”

Flynn is very tempted. He can’t deny it. But right now, he just needs to know what happened on the far side of the park, and that’s more important than yet another body bag on his account. He thumbs the safety back on, shoves the gun into his belt, decides that the shooter, if he’s still lurking in the trees, can goddamn have Margo, and runs.

He bursts out and sprints back across the grass, as he can see a fine mess shaping up by the car. Iris, Olivia, and Rufus appear to have all jumped on the thug at the same time, Lucy is down – Flynn’s heart stops for several beats in his chest – and he can definitely hear shouts coming in this direction. In another few instants, he reaches them, as Lucy is clutching her bloodied shoulder. He throws himself to his knees next to her. “What – are you – ?”

Lucy is clearly in a lot of pain, but she jerks her chin at the others, indicating that they could use the help more, and Flynn has to concur. He runs over, peels the thug off Rufus (who seems to have come over with delusions of grandeur and decided he, a shy software nerd, could take a hardened private-security contractor with his bare hands) and cold-cocks him with a punch. Iris and Olivia are ruffled, breathless, and starting an impressive black eye, in Iris’s case, but also alive, and Flynn hauls them up with each hand. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

This is far easier said than done. Lucy has been shot and is losing blood, they need to get her to a hospital, there are concerned members of the public and police closing in, they have left a trail of bodies both alive and dead, and they are stranded in a third-party country with no ID, money, phones, or other useful items, except for a stolen revolver. Flynn scoops Lucy up into his arms, she moans, and he decides that corpse in the trunk or otherwise, they are going to have to also steal the car. He jerks his head at Rufus. “Get the keys.”

Rufus hesitates an instant, then scuttles over to the unconscious thug, digs into his pockets until he finds the car keys, and tosses them to Flynn. He herds Iris and Olivia into the back seat, and Flynn carefully levers Lucy in after them. Iris pulls off her sweatshirt and starts improvising a bandage, with remarkable savoir-faire, and Rufus jumps into the passenger seat, apparently ready to play Chewbacca to Flynn’s Han Solo. “Where are we – ?”

“I don’t know,” Flynn mutters grimly, turning the engine on and reversing out with a squeal of tires. He decides as a matter of course to drive in the opposite direction from the approaching sirens, and inserts them into a narrow side lane – which, he realizes as someone blares a horn at him, is one-way only, and that way is not his way. He jerks the wheel to the side, narrowly avoiding a collision, but takes out a row of garbage bins with a clatter, and they blast out into a central street. He turns hard, slams on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the bus in front of him, and looks around for any signs for a hospital. He would prefer to avoid going to anything in Bratislava, just in case someone got a good look at the suspects in the park shooting, but Lucy needs help. It’s not a life-threatening wound, but it’s a bad one.

They drive just this side of maniacally for another few minutes, until Flynn spots a sign – _Centr_ _álnej_ _Nemocnice –_ and veers them in that direction. They park and go inside, and Flynn decides on the spot that it is better not to speak English in this situation. That way, he can play stupid if anyone too important feels inclined to suspicion, and he lifts Lucy up and carries her inside to Accident and Emergency. “My wife,” he says in Croatian. “Excuse me, someone needs to help my wife. She’s hurt, she’s hurt. Now!”

He manages to get the attention of a nurse who speaks Slovenian, so she understands him and vice versa (oh, Slavic languages, you magnificent, confusing mess, never change), and Flynn, leaning hard on the panicked tourist husband act, successfully lies about the nature of the injury. It’s hard to keep his wits when he is genuinely freaking out, but there’s an exit wound in the back of Lucy’s shoulder – so at least the bullet isn’t still in there, which would blow an instant hole in that story. Even fairly badly hurt, Lucy has enough sense to pretend that she’s in shock and can’t speak, and Flynn feels that same lurching, missed-stair swoop in his stomach as he watches her wheeled away down the corridor and into the trauma unit. This is bad, this is bad, this is _very_ bad. Jesus Christ.

He scrubs both hands over his face and returns to the waiting room, where Rufus, Iris, and Olivia are sitting in a small, stunned huddle. They glance up questioningly, and Iris says in an undertone, “Is Lucy going to be all right? She went right after the NBB guy, as soon as you and that Margo woman were out of sight. Distracted him, but got shot, and then we – ”

Flynn can’t help an almost fanboy admiration at the thought of Lucy Preston with a gun to her head, nonetheless deciding that the right course of action was to keep fighting – even after, for all she knew, he might be dead himself. He keeps a wary eye on the door, since literally anyone could burst through. He still has the gun he stole from Margo, but opening up in a hospital, when their chances of flying under the radar are slim enough as it is, would obviously be very bad. He still doesn’t have anything with a name on it, fake or otherwise.

The next step is to figure out how to get them the hell out of this. Finally, Flynn decides grimly that he’s going to have to send Rufus back to Budapest. It’s a risk, obviously, but Rufus is the only one who has his wallet, hotel room key, ID lanyard, and other such material, since he was at the tech conference when he was snatched. He can go back to the New York Palace and pick up their stuff, he’s the only one whose presence won’t be an instant tip-off to the Mason Industries contingent, and they might be wondering where the sam hill he is anyway. Flynn doesn’t completely trust Rufus not to just run away and never go near any of them again, which would be understandable, but he’s short on options, and he’s definitely not sending Iris and Olivia by themselves. So he yanks the other man aside and informs him of the plan. It’s not really a request.

“Are you sure?” Rufus asks, squiggle-eyed. “Look, man, I want to help you out, but also, you people are crazy, I just got kidnapped, and I speak no Slovakian whatsoever and like, three words of piss-poor Hungarian. I don’t know that I’m your guy.”

“I need to stay here, look after the girls, and scrap the car before the police connect it to what happened in Hviezdoslav. Besides, Margo said that whoever thought they were working with me, the mysterious guy who’s been causing us so many problems, he’s here. Or told them to go here, at any rate. If he’s going to make more trouble, I’m better equipped to handle it.”

“Or,” Rufus says. “ _You’ll_ just make more trouble. Like the dead guy in the trunk.”

“Keep your voice down,” Flynn hisses. He was about to say that that wasn’t his fault, before deciding that he can’t in all honesty do that. “Listen to me, Carlin. You will go get our things from Budapest, not tell anyone, and return here or wherever else I tell you to, promptly, or I’ll inform the Slovakian authorities that you’re a person of interest in what happened to Lucy. Got it?”

Rufus flinches. Then he says, “You’re such a dick.”

“Noted.” Flynn doesn’t have time for hand-holding. “There’s a bus that can get you back to Budapest in an hour and a half, it’s cheap and pretty comfortable. Go to the main station, AS Mlynské nivy. Someone will speak English or you have Google Translate on your phone, you’ll be fine. Got it? Now get out of here.”

Rufus considers this for a long moment, and Flynn shifts his weight in case he decides to go Big Hero 6 again, but Rufus (wisely) decides that this would end in catastrophe for him. With a muttered comment about how Flynn has never heard of asking nicely, he turns and heads out of the hospital, and Flynn watches from an outward-facing window until he’s sure that Rufus has made it out of the car park and down the street without being apprehended. Then he heads back to the waiting room and looks at Iris and Olivia. “You two. Stay here.”

“What else were we going to do?” Iris’s voice makes it clear that if this is in fact how her dear father spends most of his time, she has no interest in following him into the family business. “Dad, I want to trust you. Really. But this is insane.”

“I know.” Flynn was trying to talk her around to believing him at breakfast this morning, they almost made some real progress, and this is threatening to undo all of it (not to mention, you know, their physical safety and basic well-being). “Just… stay and wait for the nurse to come back. Iris, do you remember any of your Croatian?”

Iris gives him an odd, oblique look, since she was fluent up until they moved to America, but they haven’t really used it much since. “Yeah,” she says. “That was the plan, pretend we don’t speak English. I can handle it, but I don’t know what we’re supposed to tell her.”

“Just be relieved that Lucy’s fine.” Because Lucy will _be_ fine, there is no other option. “I’ll try not to take too long.”

With that, since he has a feeling that he might want to cut his losses, Flynn bails out with the withering stare of his daughter on the back of his head, and heads down to the car park. There is not enough time to strip it down as completely as he would like to; his fingerprints are all over the wheel, for instance, and if the Bratislava municipal police have a competent forensics team, it would not be hard to match it back to him. Besides, they left Margo and the second thug alive, which seems risky. They could just walk into a station and file a report about the dangerous, terrible man who assaulted them unprovoked and killed their colleague. Margo was not keen on involving them earlier, for the obvious fact that NBB also does not want cops all up in its business, but plans could have changed.

Flynn gets back into the car, drives it up the road, and out to the industrial outskirts of the city. He locates a steep back-street slipway into the River Danube, unlocks the gate at the end by the scientific method of breaking the padlock, and puts the car in neutral and sets the handbrake halfway. This holds it long enough for him to get out, but he waits a few minutes until it starts slipping, the car rolls down the incline, and splashes into the dark river. They might dredge it up if there’s a sustained investigation, but at least it will take a while.

Car and corpse disposed of, Flynn ducks into a corner grocery shop, buys some vinegar and scrubbing powder, and does his best to remove any lingering DNA contamination. By now, he really wants to get back to the hospital, but moving Lucy out of it will be difficult without a fresh vehicle. Could he steal another car? Where the hell are they going to go? It would be best to wait for Rufus to return with their money, passports, and phones, he can’t assume that NBB is going to just sit back and meekly take this on the chin, and he’s also not going to –

When Flynn looks up, he is standing at the end of the street. As in, himself. He’s standing right here, but he’s also standing there. It’s him. His doppelganger. The one who must have shot Thomson in the park earlier, who has been pulling their strings from afar. _Him._

This sounds confusing, but it’s nowhere near as confusing and horrifying as it is to experience. Flynn feels the dissociation like a full-body slam, sending him reeling back into the wall behind him, as his consciousness apparently can’t decide which of its present corporeal instances it should choose to inhabit. He goes to his knees, blinks sickening purple spots out of his eyes, and feels some kind of mental echo, some kind of limbic memory, like he did with the flashbacks earlier, convinced he’d already been here. “Hey,” he croaks. “Hey, you son of a bitch. HEY!”

No answer. Flynn is suddenly not even sure he’s said it aloud, because reality is doing all kinds of batshit-insane things it was never trained to do and which have no frame of reference for the ordinary human mind. He remains on hands and knees, dry-retching, until when he finally looks up and his Mr. Hyde is gone. _Jesus._ What was that? An accident, a warning, an attempt to get him to do something apart from whatever he might have done? Everyone’s been right, all this time. Jessica, Iris, Rufus, Lucy, Margo, everyone who thinks they have met him or talked to him or seen him in places that he knows for sure he hasn’t been. There’s another him, another Flynn, who has been interfering this entire time. _Why?_

Flynn clambers shakily to his feet, has to remain bent over and breathing hard, and finally sets off for the hospital again. It’s well into the evening by now, getting late, and he doesn’t know how much time he should allow for Rufus to complete his third international trip for the day. He might not return until tomorrow morning at least, assuming he didn’t get caught in Budapest. Either way, Flynn needs to get back to the hospital and find Lucy and the girls.

He walks, still somewhat unsteady, back to Centrálnej, goes inside, and up to the waiting room. Olivia is dozing off on Iris’s shoulder, Iris herself is staring at the wall with an unfocused expression, and jumps when Flynn steps into the room. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” This is obviously a lie, but they don’t need an extensive recital of how comprehensively everything has gone to shit. “How’s Lucy?”

“She’s okay.” Iris struggles to stifle a yawn. “The bullet tore up some tendons and did some nerve and muscle damage, but it missed any major arteries, thankfully. They sewed her up and gave her some painkillers. The nurse wants to talk to you.”

Flynn can suppose that yes, she probably does, and no, he probably should not let her do that. “I take it Rufus isn’t back?”

“No. Margo didn’t bust in either.” Iris rubs a hand over her eyes. “I’m starving.”

Flynn feels a pang of bone-deep guilt. He let Lucy get hurt, he’s doing a terrible job at looking after Iris and her (girl?)friend, and since this is apparently entirely and singularly his fault, his personally, he should shoulder some responsibility for that. He’s at a loss to figure out what would cause his future or alternate self, if this is indeed who the other Flynn is, to risk this kind of trip back to events already embroiled enough the first time around (or was his presence the factor that embroiled them to start with? There’s a paradox for you). Yes, time travel did enter the picture as a possibility, it has to be considered that they actually used it, or they _will_ use it? To stop these Rittenhouse people, or – _what?_

Deciding that the rest of it can wait until after he’s seen Lucy for himself, Flynn nods awkwardly at Iris and heads down to the nurse station. It’s not the same one as last time, or that would definitely involve questions he doesn’t want to answer, but it takes a bit of cajoling before she will let him in to see Lucy, who has been given a private room at the end of the hall. The room is dark and she looks like she’s asleep, but she raises her head off the pillow when the opening door casts a crack of light across the floor. “Garcia? Is that you?”

“Yeah.” Flynn penguin-shuffles in, somewhat of an unusual thing to spot a six-foot-four man doing, and shuts it behind him. There’s an eerie green glow from the various monitors Lucy is hooked up to, her shoulder is heavily bandaged, and he anxiously scans her face to see if she’s in pain. “How are – are you?”

“Sore,” Lucy admits. “But they said I should be all right. I just need to take it easy for a while.”

Flynn can’t help a snort, as that seems like a vastly unlikely event in their current program. He pulls up an uncomfortable plastic chair and perches at her bedside, looking at her good hand lying on the sheets with an IV needle attached, but not presuming to take it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You hired me to keep you safe, and I didn’t do that.”

“I did tackle a man who was holding a gun to my head.” Lucy’s mouth quirks wryly. “In this case, at least, it wasn’t entirely your fault.”

“Entirely.” Flynn blows out a breath. There’s no easy way to broach this subject, so he’s just going to have to resort to his usual tactic of headlong into the breach. “Just now, while I was out, I… I saw… myself. Back in Budapest, the last time we talked about this, I didn’t really believe that was the case, but I… I think it is. That there’s two of me. Or another.”

Lucy’s eyes go rather big, but she manages to avoid any overt sound or expression of shock. All she says is, “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, yeah. It was definitely me, and something – I don’t know what – happened to me. It’s been happening since we got here. Like I’m in two places at once in this city, and remembering different things, and my mind can’t quite reconcile that. It’s me, it’s been me all along. This mysterious third party interfering and why everyone thinks it was. I just… can’t figure out why. Or – well. Any of it.”

“Rufus is the one who was supposed to be working on the.” Lucy hesitates. “Time travel. Or at least, he could identify it as the plan. Where is he?”

“I sent him back to Hungary to get our stuff.” Flynn eyes her hand again, but still doesn’t quite think he can take it. “And I trashed the car. I’d like to get us out of here, this is much too close for comfort in any number of ways, but if you’re hurt – ”

“I could manage,” Lucy says, bravely if perhaps somewhat untruthfully. “If it’s dangerous – ”

“Everywhere is dangerous.” Flynn stares at the wall behind the headboard, feeling drained and old. “Margo wanted to shoot me to stop all this from happening, and I don’t know that she was wrong. Might be a relief for you, eh? I’ve done enough.”

“What? No.” Lucy pushes herself upright with a grimace of pain, reaches out, and fumbles for his hand, her smaller fingers closing tightly around his own. “No, that’s – that’s not what I want, or what anyone wants. All right?”

Flynn looks down at her hand, can’t think of what to say, and silently lifts it to his mouth with both of his and kisses it. It’s generous of Lucy, given what their relationship has been to date (all right, he wasn’t a totally terrible lover, but he is uncomfortably aware that he still has plenty of making up to do). “I don’t actively want you dead” is somewhat lukewarm as ultimatums of feelings go, but he’ll take it. He’d take anything. He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, or maybe he was in the middle long before he knew he had begun, but he just – he is attached to Lucy on some level far beyond the explicable, the easy or the rational or the safe. He is matched to her in a way it is difficult to understand, except as some kind of cosmic synergy. It sounds ridiculous and melodramatic, and yet.

He keeps looking down at her hand between his own, not sure he trusts himself to speak, a supplicant kneeling in silent prayer at an empty altar. He doesn’t even know if he could call it love, not exactly, because even that feels too sane and tidy and ordinary. It’s just like there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, nowhere and no _when,_ if it was for her, and so –

Just then, something even more horrifying than the dissociation happens, and with no warning whatsoever. One moment, he’s sitting there, still holding her hand, and the next, he’s sitting at the same bedside, but something – everything – is different. The light is wrong, and Lucy’s still lying there, but she’s covered with a sheet except for her face. She is cold and still and lifeless, her flesh sunken and stiff and waxen. She is, quite clearly, dead.

All the blood and the soul and the spirit drains out of Flynn on the spot. He leans forward, grips hold of her shoulders, and half-shakes her, as if that’s actually going to wake her up. His hands don’t move like they should, they feel as if he’s struggling through thick, cold mud, and it’s like living in a real nightmare that won’t stop. Panic percolates raw in his throat and in ice-cold veins around his heart. “Lucy? Lucy! _Lucy!”_

Just as he thinks he’s about to lose his mind in some terrible and unmendable way, something he can never get back, the ghastly vision vanishes. Lucy is back in the bed where she was before, banged-up but alive, looking at him with deep concern. “Garcia? What just – ?”

Flynn takes a deep, ragged breath, since inexplicable psychotic breaks appear to be happening to him more and more often (no comment from the peanut gallery). He scrubs both hands over his eyes and back through his tousled hair, not daring to look away from her in case it happens again. He pulls one hand loose and touches her arm anyway, just to be sure it’s warm. A sudden and most likely utterly insane idea has just occurred to him, but he doesn’t want to say it. “You’re all right,” he says stupidly. “You’re fine?”

“Yeah.” Lucy’s brow furrows. “That hasn’t changed in the last five minutes. What’s…?”

“Never mind.” Flynn touches her again, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek, and she turns her head into his hand. He struggles to think of any other explanation, anything but the one monumental fear that has just presented itself as a potential reason for all this. Is that why his future self (as the best designation appears to be) gambled everything on a return to this sequence of events? Because where this all happened the first time, Lucy died? Was shot fatally in the park, rather than just glancingly and by accident? So what –

Thomson. It hits Flynn like an avalanche, and he wishes he wasn’t sure, but he is. Thomson killed Lucy, the first time. That was why his future self staked out the park and took the shot, killed him at any risk or cost, before he had time to touch Lucy. Except this, of course, caused even more disruption, nearly got him killed by Margo, got Lucy shot anyway, and things might be going even more uncontrollably off the rails. But _the first time –_ that sounds impossible. This _is_ the first time, obviously, that Flynn is experiencing all of this. He has no memory of any other alternate outcome, but is that because his future self has already changed it? The idea that he’s already lived through a timeline where Lucy died, that this impelled him to use goddamn _time travel_ to return and interfere, he just – he can’t. It terrifies him for any number of reasons. Iris, yes, if it was Iris, he would have done the same, without a second thought. But for Lucy? Is that what that soul-deep connection is, something he doesn’t know that he’s ready for, that he’d risk the entire world for her just as he would have for Iris? Kismet? It feels like terrifying and insurmountable chaos.

At that, Flynn realizes that this other Flynn isn’t actually _him._ He is a relic from a now-closed alternate timeline, a chronological fugitive, because he experienced an entirely different progression and outcome of this whole adventure than present Flynn. And the central event of that, from the looks of things, was losing Lucy. This is a reckless, heartbroken, insanely driven Flynn, who has been shadowing his past self as closely as he can, taking increasingly bigger risks in his desperation to drive him and Lucy away from NBB and whatever fatal confrontation happened. The problem is, in the finest tradition of self-fulfilling  prophecies, everything he’s done has made it all worse and set off a chain of uncontrollable side effects. Attacking Jessica in Bangladesh to make sure NBB and then Connor Mason didn’t get the briefcase caused Jessica to go after Iris and Olivia, just to name one. Flynn is willing to put money on it being this other self that was following him and Lucy in Paris, it clearly was this alt-Flynn that Rufus met in Budapest, and he may even be responsible for the deaths of Mr. Yang in Hong Kong and Pieter van Houten in Tangier, as he struggled to stop the timeline from spinning even further out of control. In short, he went back to put out one big fire, and has started a thousand smaller ones instead. Now absolutely no one knows what’s going to happen, if Lucy has been permanently saved, or if all this temporo-spatial bugfuckery is just going to snap the lot of them like a rubber band. _Brilliant._

Flynn is forced to admit that even for him, this is spectacular, and he rubs the bridge of his nose, struggling not to totally melt down. Is that why alt-Flynn risked a face-to-face sighting earlier, to see if that particular crisis point had passed and Lucy was still alive, that everything he did has been worth it? Does he go on existing as the ghost in the machine, or now with his reason for travelling prevented from happening, does he wink out of existence with the rest of his cancelled timeline? Motherfucker, where is Rufus? The one time you need a science nerd around to explain this, and Flynn packed him off to Budapest.

“Garcia?” Lucy says. The look on his face must really be something. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Flynn forces a smile. He’s not sure there is any way to explain this, when he isn’t sure about the first bit of it. More than that, he’s terrified about what this means, that he feels this much and this hard, that he’s willing to risk the structure of the known universe and all of their existences if it meant Lucy was saved. He bends down, kisses her quickly and clumsily on the forehead, then gets to his feet and pushes back. “I’m going to go. . . check on the girls.”

They probably don’t need checking on, but he needs to put space between her and this realization, is possessed of the old urge to run, to get away where it’s safer, the same old impulse that made him flee to America, away from Matej and the heartbreak and the impossibility of dealing with that, where it was easier just to forget and pretend it never happened. Where he became a procurator, and now it seems, if any of this is correct, that him being a procurator is what killed Lucy. As in, NBB literally murdered her. If that is not a cautionary tale for the ages, Flynn doesn’t know what is, and Margo already made it clear that he was super- _duper_ fired. So is this how he saves Lucy? Get her as far away from this shady organization as possible? Run away to one of the remote places he’s been and start a new life? Take her back to New Zealand and pray for the best? Is his future self gone now? Is it just him? Is that better or much, much worse?

Preoccupied and very worried, Flynn stumbles back into the waiting room. The hospital might kick them out, since it’s well past visiting hours, but he’ll be ornery if they do. Iris and Olivia appear to have both fallen asleep, a few scattered family members are waiting for news of loved ones, and it’s otherwise quiet. Flynn can feel his own exhaustion creeping up over him, dragging him down. It has been a very, very long day.

He sinks onto one of the generic couches and closes his eyes as far as he dares, listening to the sterile hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant sigh and rush of a hospital late at night. He drifts off and on. Then he is woken by the sound of a distant elevator ding, footsteps coming down the hall, and sees a shadow falling over the floor. He tenses, jumps to his feet, and pulls the gun from his waistband, even as it belatedly occurs to him that this is a stupid thing to do in a hospital. But if it’s –

It’s not anyone that he was fearing it could be. It’s a young woman, tousled and dirty and looking like she too has been through hell. She has tangled brown hair, a fading black eye, and seems tangentially familiar, though Flynn doesn’t know why. She stops at the edge of the room, glances around, and sees him.

There’s some kind of recognition, though he isn’t quite sure what. She looks like it’s a relief, at least, rather than a worry. Then she hurries toward him. “Mr. – Mr. Flynn?”

“Yes?” Flynn has given up trying to understand anything. “Can I help you?”

“My name is Amy Preston.” The young woman lifts her chin and meets his gaze. “My sister’s Lucy. I think you two may have been looking for me. I was kidnapped, but you – well, I got away. And I need to tell you about Rittenhouse.”


End file.
